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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


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I'/uiiUd  /a/  Si'rJ.Jleifiivldi 


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POEMS, 


PLAYS    AND    ESSAYS, 


BY 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,  M.  B. 


WITH 


AN  ACCOUNT   OF  HIS  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS; 


TO    WHICH   13   ADDED 


A  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION  ON  HIS  POETRY. 


BY   JOHN   AIKIN,  M.  D. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,   SAMPSON,  AND    COMPANY, 

110  Washington  Street. 

1853. 


CONTENTS 


Dr.  Aikin's  Memoirs  of  the  Author 

Remarks  on  the  Poetry  of  Dr.  Goldsmith  :  by 

Dr.  Aikin 

Verses  on  the  death  of  Dr.  Goldsmith     .        . 


vii 


XXXIV 

1 


FOEMS. 

The  Traveller ;  or,  a  Prospect  of  Society 

The  Deserted  Village     . 

The  Hermit,  a  Ballad    . 

The  Haunch  of  Venison,  to  Lord  Clare 

Retaliation  • 

Postscript  ... 

The  Double  Transformation,  a  Tale 

The    Gift  :    to    Iris,    in    Bow-street,    Covent 

garden  ..... 
An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog 
The   Logicians    Refuted:    Imitation    of 

Swift     .         .         .         • 
A  new  Simile    in  the  Manner  of  Swift 


Dea 


9 

23 
37 
43 
47 
52 
53 

56 
56 

57 
59 


_- 


7  •        ~          ~      ' ~        

iv                                   CONTENTS. 

— ■ — ■ — 

Description  of  an  Author's  Bed-chamber 

Page 

.      61 

A   Prologue   by   the    Poet    Laberius,    whom 

Cagsar  forced  upon  the  Stage 

.      61 

An  Elegy  on  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize 

.      62 

On  a  beautiful  Youth  struck  blind  by  Lightnit 

ig    63 

The  Clown's  Reply        .... 

.      63 

Epitaph  on  Dr.  Parnell 

.       63 

Epitaph  on  Edward  Purdon 

.      64 

Stanzas  on  the  taking  of  Quebec 

.      64 

Stanzas  on  Woman        .... 

.        64 

Sonnet          ...... 

.      fj5 

Songs 

.      65 

Song,  intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  Co- 

medy of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer 

66 

Prologue  to  Zobeide,  a  Tragedy 

66 

Epilogue  to  the  Comedy  of  the  Sisters 

67 

Epilogue   spoken  by  Mrs.  Bulkley  and  Miss 

Catley            .         .                  ... 

69 

Epilogue  intended  for  Mrs.  Bulklev         .         , 

71 

Epilogue,  spoken  by  Mr.  Lee  Lewes 

73 

Threnodia  Augustalis 

75 

The  Captivity :  an  Oratorio             .         .         . 

84 

Lines  attributed  to  Dr.  Goldsmith 

95 

PLAYS. 

f  he  Good-natured  Man,  a  Comedy 

96 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  or  the  Mistakes  of  a 

Ni^ht 

L — 

. > 

171 

• 

CONTENTS. 

V 

ESSAYS. 

Page 

Introduction          ..... 

. 

251 

Love  and  Friendship,  or  the  Story  of  Alcander 

and  Septimus,   taken    from  a   Byzantine 

Historian 

. 

254 

On  Happiness  of  Temper        .         . 

• 

258 

Description  of  various  Clubs  . 

. 

262 

On  the  Policy  of  concealing  our  Want», 

or 

Poverty 

• 

270 

On  Generosity  and  Justice     .        .        . 

- 

275 

On  the  Educatioj  of  iouth             . 

• 

279 

On  the  Versatility  of  popular  Favour       . 

• 

289 

Specimen  of  a  Magazine  in  Miniature      . 

• 

293 

Beau  Tibbs ;  a  Character      .        .        . 

• 

296 

Beau  Tibbs — continued          . 

# 

299 

On  the  Irresolution  of  Youth           .         . 

. 

303 

On  Mad  Dogs 

• 

306 

On  the  increased  Love  of  Life  with  Age 

1 

310 

Ladies'    Passion    for    levelling    Distinction 

of 

Dress 

. 

313 

Asem,  an  Eastern  Tale ;    or,   the  Wisdom 

of 

Providence  in   the  moral  Government  of 

the  World 

. 

318 

On  the  English  Clergy,  and  popular  Preach 

ers 

326 

On  the  Advantages  to  be  derived  from  sending 

a  judicious  Traveller  into  Asia 

• 

330 

Reverie  at  the  Boar's-head  Tavern,    in  East- 

cheap    .                           .                  . 

1 

334 

vi  CONTENTS. 

Page 

On  Quack  Doctors        ...                 .  347 

Adventures  of  a  Strolling  Player     .         .         .  350 

Rules  to  be  observed  at  a  Russian  Assembly   .  360 

The  Genius  of  Love,  an  Eastern  Apologue      .  361 

Distresses  of  an  English  disabled  Soldier          .  365 
On  the  Frailty  of  Man            .         .         .         .371 

On  Friendship       ......  373 

Follv  of  attempting  to  learn  Wisdom  in  Re- 
tirement        ......  376 

Letter,  by  a  Common  Council-man  at  the  time 

of  the  Coronation 379 

A  second  Letter,  describing  the  Coronation      .  3fl2 


MEMOIRS 

OF 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH,   M.B. 

BY  DR.  AIKIN. 


It  cannot  be  said  of  this  ornament  of  British  literature, 
as  has  been  observed  of  most  authors,  that  the  me- 
moirs of  his  life  comprise  little  more  than  a  history  of 
his  writings.  Goldsmith's  life  was  full  of  adventure  ; 
and  a  due  consideration  of  his  conduct  from  the  out- 
set to  his  death  will  furnish  many  useful  lessons  to 
those  who  live  after  him. 

Our  Author,  the  third  son  of  Mr.  Charles  Gold- 
smith, was  born  at  Elphin,  in  the  county  of  Roscom- 
mon, Ireland,  on  the  29th  of  November,  1728.  His 
father,  who  had  been  educated  at  Dublin  college,  was 
a  clergyman  of  the  established  church,  and  had 
married  Anne,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Oliver  Jones, 
master  of  the  diocesan  school  of  Elphin.  Her  mother's 
brother,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Green,  then  rector  of  Kil- 
kenny West,  lent  the  young  couple  the  house  in 
which  our  author  was  born  ;  and  at  his  death  Mr. 
Green  was  succeeded  in  his  benefice  by  his  clerical 
vrottgee. 

Mr.  Charles  Goldsmith  had  five  sons  and  two 
daughters. 

Henry,  the  eldest  son  (to  whom  the  poem  of  '  The 
Traveller'  is  dedicated),  distinguished  himself  greatly 
both  at  school  and  at  college  ;  but  his  marriage  at 
nineteen  years  of  age  appears  to  have  been  a  bar  to 
his  preferment  in  the  church  ;  and  we  believe  that  he 
never  ascended  above  a  curacy. 


»iii  AlKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OP 

The  liberal  education  which  the  father  bestowed 
upon  Henry,  had  deducted  so  much  from  a  narrow 
income,  that  when  Oliver  was  born,  after  an  interval 
of  seven  years  from  the  birth  of  the  former  child,  no 
prospect  in  life  appeared  for  him,  but  a  mechanical  or 
mercantile  occupation. 

The  rudiments  of  instruction  he  acquired  from  a 
schoolmaster  in  the  village,  who  had  served  in  Queen 
Anne's  war-s  as  a  quarter-master  in  'that  detachment 
of  the  army  which  was  sent  to  Spain.  Being  of  a 
communicative  turn,  and  finding  a  ready  hearer  in 
young  Oliver,  this  man  used  frequently  to  entertain 
him  with  what  he  called  his  adventures ;  nor  is  it 
without  probability  supposed,  that  these  laid  the  foun- 
dation of  that  wandering  disposition  which  became 
afterward  se  conspicuous  in  his  pupil. 

At  a  very  early  age  Oliver  began  to  exhibit  indica- 
tions of  genius  ;  for  when  only  seven  or  eight  years 
old  he  would  often  amuse  his  father  and  mother  with 
poetical  attempts  which  attracted  much  notice  from 
them  and  their  friends  ;  bat  his  infant  mind  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  much  elated  by  their  approba- 
tion ;  for  after  his  verses  had  been  admired  they  were 
without  regret  committed  by  him  to  the  flames. 

He  was  now  taken  from  the  tuition  of  the  quondam 
soldier,  to  be  put  under  that  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin, 
schoolmaster  of  Elphin  ;  and  was  at  the  same  time 
received  into  the  house  of  his  father's  brother,  John 
Goldsmith,  Esq.  of  Ballyoughter,  near  that  town. 

Our  author's  eldest  sister  Catharine  (afterwards 
married  to  Daniel  Ilodson,  Esq.  of  Lishoy,  near 
Ballymahon)  relates,  that  one  evening,  when  Oliver 
was  about  nine  years  of  age,  a  company  of  young 
people  of  both  sexes  being  assembled  at  his  uncle's, 
the  boy  was  required  to  dance  a  hornpipe,  a  youth 
undertaking  to  play  to  him  on  the  fiddle.  Being  but 
lately  out  of  the  small-pox,  which  had  much  dis- 
figured his  countenance,  and  his  bodily  proportions 
being  short  and  thick,  the  young  musician  thought  to 
shew  his  wit  by  comparing  our  hero  to  iEsop  dancing; 


OLIVER  UOLDSMITH.  i* 

and  having  harped  a  little  tuo  long,  as  the  caperer 
thought,  on  this  bright  idea,  the  latter  suddenly 
stopped,  and  said, 

Our  herald  hath  proclaim'il  this  saying, 

'  See  Msoyt  darjeing,' — and  his  Monkey  playing. 

This  instance  of  early  wit,  we  are  told,  decided  his 
fortune  ;  for,  from  that  time,  it  was  determined  to  send 
him  to  the  university  ;  and  some  of  his  relations,  who 
were  in  the  church,  offered  to  contribute  towards  the 
expense,  particularly  the  Rev.  Thomas  Contarine, 
rector  of  Kilmore,  near  Carrick-upon-Shannon,  who 
had  married  an  aunt  of  Oliver's.  The  Rev.  Mr. 
Green  also,  whom  we  have  before  mentioned,  liberal- 
ly assisted  in  this  friendly  design. 

To  further  the  purpose  intended,  he  was  now  re- 
moved to  Athlone,  where  he  continued  about  two 
years  under  the  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell ;  who  being  then 
obliged  by  ill  health  to  resign  the  charge,  Oliver  was 
sent  to  the  school  of  the  Rev  Patrick  Hughes,  at 
Edgeworthstown,  in  the  county  of  Longford.* 

Under  this  gentleman  he  was  prepared  for  the  uni- 
versity ;  and  on  the  11th  of  June,  1744,  was  ad- 
mitted a  Sizer  of  Trinity  college,  Dublin, t  under  the 
tuition  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilder,  one  of  the  Fellows, 

•  We  are  told,  that  in  his  last  journey  to  this  school,  he  had  an  ad- 
venture which  is  thought  to  have  suggested  the  plot  of  his  comedy 
of  'She  Stoops  to  Conquer.' — Some  friend  h.id  given  him  a  guinea; 
and  In  his  way  to  Edgeworthstown,  which  was  about  twenty  miles  from 
his  father's  house,  he  had  amused  himself  the  whole  day  with  viewing 
the  gentlemen's  seats  on  the  road;  and  at  nightfall  found  himself  ill 
the  small  town  of  Ardagh.  Here  he  inquired  for  the  best  house  in 
the  place,  meaning  the  best  bin;  but  his  informant,  taking  the  ques- 
tion in  its  literal  sense,  shelved  him  to  the  bouse  of  a  private  gentle- 
man ;  where,  calling  for  somebody  to  take  Ins  horse  In  the  stable,  our 
hero  alighted,  and  was  shewn  into  ^hc  parlour,  being  supposed  to  have 
come  on  a  visit  to  the  master,  whom  be  found  sitting  by  the  lire.  This 
eentleman  soon  discovered  Oliver's  mistake;  but  being  a  man  of 
humour,  and  learning  from  bun  the  name  of  his  father  (whom  he 
knew),  hefavoured  the  deception.  Oliver  ordered  a  good  supper  aud 
invited  bis  landlord  and  landlady,  wnh  their  daughters,  to  partake  ot 
it;  he  treated  tbem  with  a  bottle  or  two  of  wine,  and,  at  going  t->  bed, 
ordered  a  hot  cake  to  be  prepared  for  bis  bn  akfaHl :  nor  was  ;i  till  l.c 
was  about  to  depart,  and  called  for  his  bill,  that  he  discov.  red  his 
mistake. 

v  The  celebrated  Edmund  Burke  was  at  the  same  time  a  collcnao 
there. 

a2 


x  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OP 

who  was  a  man  of  harsh  temper  and  violent  passions  ; 
and  Oliver  being  of  a  thoughtless  and  gay  turn,  it 
cannot  be  surprising  that  they  should  soon  be  dis- 
satisfied with  each  other. 

Oliver,  it  seems,  had  one  day  imprudently  invited 
a  party  of  both  sexes  to  a  supper  and  ball  in  his 
rooms ;  which  coming  to  the  ears  of  his  tutor,  the 
latter  entered  the  place  in  the  midst  of  their  jollity, 
abused  the  whole  company,  and  inflicted  manual  cor- 
rection on  Goldsmith  in  their  presence. 

This  mortification  had  such  an  effect  on  the  mind 
of  Oliver,  that  he  resolved  to  seek  his  fortune  in  some 
place  where  he  should  be  unknown  :  accordingly,  he 
sold  his  books  and  clothes,  and  quitted  the  university; 
but  loitered  about  the  streets,  considering  of  a  destina- 
tion, till  his  money  was  exhausted.  With  a  solitary 
shilling  in  his  pocket  he  at  last  left  Dublin  ;  by  ab- 
stinence he  made  this  sum  last  him  three  days,  and 
then  was  obliged  to  part,  by  degrees,  with  the  clothes 
off  his  back  :  in  short,  to  such  an  extremity  was  he 
reduced,  as  to  find  a  handful  of  gray-peas,  given  him 
by  a  girl  at  a  wake,  the  most  comfortable  repast  that 
he  had  ever  made. 

After  numberless  adventures  in  this  vagrant  state, 
he  found  his  way  home,  and  was  replaced  under  his 
morose  and  merciless  tutor;  by  whom  he  was  again 
exposed  to  so  many  mortifications,  as  induced  an  ha- 
bitual despondence  of  mind,  and  a  total  carelessness 
about  his  studies  ;  the  consequence  of  which  was,  that 
he  neither  obtained  a  scholarship,  nor  became  a  can- 
didate for  the  premiums.  On  the  25th  of  May,  1747, 
he  received  a  public  admonition,  lor  having  assisted 
other  collegians  in  a  riot*  occasioned  by  a  scholar 
having  been  arrested,  quod  seditioni  fuvisset,  et  tumul- 
tuantibus  opem  tulisset ;  in  this  case,  however,  lie  ap- 
pears to  have  fared  better  than  some  of  his  com- 
panions, who  were  expelled  the  university.  On  the 
loth  of  June  following  he  was  elected  one  of  the  ex- 
hibitioners on  the  foundation  of  Erasmus  Smyth  ;  but 
was  not  admitted  to  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  till 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


xl 


February,  1749,  which  was  two  years  after  the  usual 
period. 

Oliver's  father  being  now  dead,  his  uncle  Contanne 
undertook  to  supply  his  place,  and  wished  him  to 
prepare  for  holy  orders.  This  proposal  not  meeting 
with  the  young  man's  inclination,  Mr.  Contarine  next 
resolved  on  sending  him  to  London,  that  he  might 
study  law  in  the  Temple.  Whilst  at  Dublin,  how- 
ever, on  his  way  to  England,  he  fell  in  with  a  sharper, 
who  cheated  him  at  play  of  50/.  which  had  been  pro- 
vided for  his  carriage,  &c.  He  returned,  and  received 
his  uncle's  forgiveness  :  it  was  now  finally  settled  that 
he  should  make  physic  his  profession ;  and  he  de- 
parted for  Edinburgh,  where  he  settled  about  the 
latter  end  of  the  year  1752.  Here  he  attended  the 
lectures  of  Dr.  Monroe  and  the  other  medical  pro- 
fessors ;  but  his  studies  were  by  no  means  regular ; 
and  an  indulgence  in  dissipated  company",  with  a 
ready  hand  to  administer  to  the  necessities  of  whoever 
asked  him,  kept  him  always  poor. 

Having,  however,  gone  through  the  usual  courses 
of  physic  and  anatomy  in  the  Scottish  university,  Gold- 
smith was  about  to  remove  to  Leyden  to  complete  his 
studies  ;  and  his  departure  was  hastened,  by  a  debt  to 
Mr.  Barclay,  a  tailor  in  Edinburgh,  which  he  had 
imprudently  made  his  own  by  becoming  security  for  a 
fellow-student,  who,  cither  from  want  of  principle  or 
of  means,  had  failed  to  pay  it:  for  this  debt  he  was 
arrested ;  but  was  released  by  the  kindness  of  Dr. 
Sleigh  and  Mr.  Laughlin  Machine,  whose  friendship 
he  had  acquired  at  the  college. 

He  now  embarked  for  Bourdeaux  on  board  a  Scotch 
vessel  called  the  St.  Andrew's,  Capt.  John  Wall, 
master.  The  ship  made  a  tolerable  appearance  ;  and, 
as  another  inducement  to  our  hero,  he  was  informed 
that  six  agreeable  passengers  were  to  be  his  company. 
They  had  been  but  two  days  at  sea,  however,  when 
a  storm  drove  them  into  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  and 
the  passengers  went  ashore  to  refresh  after  the  fatigue 
of  their  voyage.     '  Seven  men  and    I  (says  Gold- 


xii  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

smith)  were  on  shore  the  following  evening;  but  as 
we  were  all  very  merry,  the  room  door  burst  open, 
and  there  entered  a  Serjeant  and  twelve  grenadiers, 
with  their  bayonets  screwed,  who  put  us  all  under  the 
King's  arrest.  It  seems,  my  company  were  Scotch- 
men in  the  French  service,  and  had  been  in  Scotland 
to  enlist  soldiers  for  Louis  XV.  I  endeavoured  all  I 
could  to  prove  my  innocence  ;  however,  I  remained 
in  prison  with  the  rest  a  fortnight,  and  with  difficulty 
got  off  even  then.  But  hear  how  Providence  inter- 
posed in  my  favour  :  the  ship,  which  had  set  sail  for 
Bourdeaux  before  I  got  from  prison,  was  wrecked  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Garonne,  and  every  one  of  the  crew 
drowned.' — Fortunately,  there  was  a  ship  now  ready 
at  Newcastle,  for  Holland,  on  board  of  which  he  em- 
barked, and  in  nine  days  reached  Rotterdam;  whence 
he  travelled  by  land  to  Leyden. 

Here  fie  resided  about  a  year,  studying  anatomy 
under  Albinus,  and  chymistry  under  Gambius  ;  but 
here,  as  formerly,  his  little  property  was  destroyed  by 
play  and  dissipation  ;  and  he  is  actually  believed  to 
have  set  out  on  his  travels  with  only  one  clean  shirt, 
and  not  a  guilder  in  his  purse,  trusting  wholly  to  Pro- 
vidence for  a  subsistence. 

It  is  generally  understood,  that  in  the  history  of  his 
Philosophic  Vagabond  (Vicar  of  Wakefield,  chap, 
xx.)  he  has  related  many  of  his  own  adventures;  and 
that  when  on  his  pedestrian  tour  through  Flanders  and 
France,  as  he  had  some  knowledge  of  music,  he  turned 
what  had  formerly  been  his  amusement  into  a  present 
means  of  subsistence.  '  I  passed  (says  he)  among 
the  harmless  peasants  of  Flanders,  and  among  such 
of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very  merry ; 
for  I  ever  found  them  sprightly  in  proportion  to  their 
wants.  Whenever  I  approached  a  peasant's  house 
towards  nightfall,  I  played  on  the  German  flute  one 
of  my  most  merry  tunes,  and  that  procured  tr.e  not 
only  a  lodging,  but  subsistence  for  the  next  day.  I 
once  or  twice  attempted  to  play  for  people  of  fashion; 
but  they  always  thought  my  performance  odious,  anJ 


OLIVKll  GOLDSMITH.  xui 

never  regarded  me  even  with  a  trifle.  This  was  to 
me  the  more  extraordinary ;  as  whenever  I  used  in 
better  days  to  play  for  company,  when  playing  was 
my  amusement,  my  music  naver  failed  to  throw  them 
into  raptures,  and  the  ladies  especially  ;  but  as  it  was 
now  my  only  means,  it  was  received  with  contempt : 
a  proof  how  ready  the  world  is  to  under-rate  those  ta- 
lents by  which  a  man  is  supported  !'  At  the  different 
monasteries  in  his  tour,  especially  those  of  his  own  na- 
tion, his  learning  generally  procured  him  temporary 
entertainment ;  and  thus  he  made  his  way  to  Switzer- 
land, in  which  country  he  first  cultivated  his  poetical 
talents  with  any  particular  effect ;  for  here  we  find  he 
wrote  about  two  hundred  lines  of  his  '  Traveller.' 

The  story  which  has  commonly  been  told,  of  his 
having  acted  as  travelling  tutor  to  a  young  miser,  is 
now  thought  to  have  been  too  hastily  adopted  from 
the  aforesaid  History  of  a  Philosophic  Vagabond,  and 
never  to  have  been  the  real  situation  of  the  author  of 
that  historv.  From  Switzerland,  Goldsmith  proceeded 
to  Padua,  "where  he  stayed  six  months,  and  hs  by  some 
supposed  to  have  there  taken  his  degree  of  Bachelor 
of  Physic  ;  though  others  are  of  opinion,  that  if  ever 
he  really  took  any  medical  degree  abroad,  it  was  at 
Louvain.* 

After  visiting  all  the  northern  part  of  Italy,  he  tra- 
velled, still  on  foot,  through  France;  and,  embarking 
at  Calais,  landed  at  Dover  in  the  summer  of  1756, 
unknown,  as  he  supposed,  to  a  single  individual,  and 
with  not  a  guinea  in  his  pocket. 

His  first  endeavours  were,  to  procure  employment 
as  an  usher  in  some  school ;  but  the  want  of  a  recom- 
mendation as  to  character  and  ability  rendered  his  ef- 
forts for  some  time  fruitless ;  and  how  he  subsisted  is 
not  easy  to  guess.  At  length,  however,  it  appears, 
he  procured  an  usher's  place ;  but  in  what  part  the 
school  was  situated,  or  how  long  he  continued  in  it, 


•  In    76!',  it  is  certain,  tie  ma  admitted  M.B.  at  Oxford,  which 
nntveroit)  iiu  visited  in  February,  in  company  with  Or.  Johnson. 


iiv  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

we  do  not  learn  ;  though  we  may  form  some  idea  of 
the  uncongeniality  of  the  place  to  his  mind,  from  the 
following  passage  in  the  Philosonhic  Vagabond  :  *  I 
have  been  an  usher  at  a  boarding-school ;  and  may  I 
die  but  I  would  rather  be  an  under-turnkey  in  New- 
gate. I  was  up  early  and  late  ;  I  was  brow-beat  by 
the  master,  hated  for  my  ugly  face  by  my  mistress, 
worried  by  the  boys  within,  and  never  permitted  to 
stir  out  to  meet  civility  abroad.' 

When  in  a  fit  of  disgust  he  had  quitted  this  academy, 
his  pecuniary  necessities  soon  became  pressing;  to  re- 
lieve which  he  applied  to  several  apothecaries  and 
chymists  for  employment,  as  a  journeyman  ;  but  here 
his  threadbare  appearance,  awkward  manners,  and  the 
want  of  a  recommendation,  operated  sorely  to  his  pre- 
judice;* till  at  last  a  chymist  near  Fish-street-hill, 
probably  moved  by  compassion,  gave  him  employ- 
ment in  his  laboratory,  where  he  continued  till  he 
learned  that  his  old  friend  Dr.  Sleigh,  of  Edinburgh, 
was  in  town  :  on  him  (who  had,  as  we  have  seen, 
formerly  relieved  him  from  embarrassment)  Goldsmith 
waited,  was  kindly  received,  and  invited  to  share  his 
purse  during  his  continuance  in  London. 

This  timely  assistance  enabled  our  author  to  com- 
mence medical  practice  at  13ankside,  in  Southwark, 
whence  he  afterward  removed  to  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Temple ;  his  success  as  a  physician  is  not  known, 
but  his  income  was  very  small ;  for,  as  he  used  to  say, 
he  got  very  few  fees,  though  he  had  abundance  of 
patients.  Some  addition,  however,  he  now  began  to 
derive  from  the  efforts  of  his  pen ;  and  it  appears 
that  he  was  for  a  while  with  the  celebrated  Samuel 
Richardson  as  corrector  of  the  press. 

About  this  time  he  renewed  his  acquaintance  with 


*  In  a  letter,  dated  Dec.  1757,  lie  writes  thus:  'At  London,  you 
oiav  easily  imagine  what  difficulties  I  had  to  encounter ;  without  friends, 
recommendations,  money,  or  impudence;  and  that  in  a  country  where 
bein»  born  an  Irishman  was  sufficient  to  keep  me  unemployed.  Many 
lu  such  circumstances  would  have  had  recourse  to  the  friar's  cord  or 
the  suicide's  halter.  But  with  all  my  follies  I  had  principle  to  resist 
the  one.  and  resolution  to  combat  the' other.' 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  X» 

one  of  the  young  physicians  whom  he  had  known  at 
Edinburgh.  This  was  a  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  John 
Milner,  a  dissenting  minister,  who  kept  a  classical 
school  of  eminence  at  Peckham,  in  Surrey.  Mr.  Mil- 
ner, observing  Goldsmith's  uncertain  mode  of  living, 
invited  him  to  take  the  charge  of  his  father's  school, 
the  Doctor  being  then  confined  by  illness :  to  this  he 
consented  ;  and  Dr.  Milner,  in  return,  promised  to 
exert  his  interest  with  the  India  Directors  to  procure 
for  him  some  medical  establishment  in  the  Company's 
service.  This  promise  he  faithfully  performed,  and 
Goldsmith  was  actually  appointed  physician  to  one  of 
the  factories  in  India  in  1758.  It  appears,  however, 
that  our  author  never  availed  himself  of  this  post,* 
but  continued  in  Dr.  Milner's  academy  ;  and  in  this 
very  year  sold  to  Mr.  Edward  Dilly,  for  twenty  gui- 
neas,  'The  Memoirs  of  a  Protestant  condemned  to  the 
Galleys  of  France  for  his  Religion.  Written  by  Him- 
self. Translated  from  the  Original,  just  published  at 
the  Hague,  by  James  Willington,'"  2  vols.  12mo. 

Towards  the  latter  end  of  1758,  Goldsmith  happened 
to  dine  at  Dr.  Milner's  table  with  Mr.  Ralph  Griffiths, 
the  proprietor  of  The  Monthly  Review,  who  invited 
him  to  write  articles  of  criticism  for  that  respectable 
publication,  on  the  terms  of  a  liberal  salary,  besides 
board  and  lodging.  By  a  written  agreement  this  en- 
gagement was  to  last  for  a  year;  but  at  the  end  of 
seven  or  eight  months  it  was  dissolved  by  mutual 
consent,  and  Goldsmith  took  a  miserable  apartment 
in  Green-Arbour-court,  Little  Old  Bailey. t  In  this 
wretched  hovel  our  author  completed  his  '  Inquiry 
into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Literature  in  Europe,' 
which  was  published  in  1759,  by  Dodsley,  and  was 
well  received.  In  October  of  the  same  year  he  be- 
gan '  The   Bee,'  a  weekly  publication,  which  termi- 


*  Though  it  is  orrtain,  lint,  in  contemplation  of  ffoinj  to  India,  lie 
Circulated  Proposals  lo  (irmt  bj  Subscription  'An  I  ssaj  on  the  Pre- 
sent State  of  Taste  and  Literature  in  Gin-Ope,' as  a  means  of  defraying 
the  expenses  of  his  fittinir  out  for  the  voyage.  .  

t  An  engraving  ofthe  house,  illustrated  by  a  description,  was  given 
in  'The  European  Magazine,'  *ol.  xliii.  pp.  7,  8. 


xvi  AIKIN'S  MEMOIKS  OF 

Dated  at  the  eighth  number.  About  this  time,  also, 
he  contributed  some  articles  to  The  Critical  Beview, 
one  of  which  (we  believe  a  review  of '  Ovid's  Epistles 
translated  into  English  verse  by  a  Mr.  Barrett,  Master 
of  the  Grammar  School  at  Ashford,  in  Kent')  intro- 
duced him  to  the  acquaintance  of  Dr.  Smollett,  who 
was  then  editor  of  The  British  Magazine  ;  and  for  that 
work  Goldsmith  wrote  most  of  those  '  Essays,'  which 
were  afterwards  collected  and  published  in  a  separate 
volume.  By  Dr.  Smollett  too  he  was  recommended 
to  some  respectable  booksellers,  particularly  to  Mr. 
John  Newbery,  who  well  deserved  the  eulogium  be- 
stowed by  Warburton  on  the  trade  in  general,  as  one 
of  '  the  best  judges  and  most  liberal  rewarders  of 
literary  merit.'  By  Mr.  Newbery  Goldsmith  wac 
engaged  at  a  salary  of  1001.  a-year  to  write  for  The 
Public  Ledger  a  series  of  periodical  papers.  These 
he  called  '  Chinese  Letters  ;'  and  they  were  after- 
wards collected  in  two  volumes,  under  the  title  of 
'  The  Citizen  of  the  World.'  It  was  soon  after  this 
that  he  commenced  his  acquaintance  with  Dr. 
Johnson. 

The  important  engagement  with  Newbery  for  a 
hundred  pounds  a-year  encouraged  Goldsmith  to  de- 
scend Break-neck-steps,*  and  to  hire  a  decent  apart 
ment  in  Wine-Office-court,  Fleet-street.  Here  he 
dropped  the  humble  Mister,  and  dubbed  himself  Doctur 
Goldsmith.  Here  also  he  put  the  finishing  hand  to 
his  excellent  novel  called  '  The  Vicar  of  VVakefie'd  ;' 
but  was,  when  he  had  done,  extremely  ernbarr?.ssed 
in  his  circumstances,  dunned  by  his  landlady  for  arrears 
of  rent,  and  not  daring  to  stir  abroad  foi  fear  of  arrest : 
ia  fact,  she  herself  at  length  had  him  arrested  ;  he 
then  summoned  resolution  to  send  a  message  to  Dr. 
Johnson  ;  stating  that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and 
becroina-  that  he  would  come  to  him  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble.  Johnson  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  fol- 
low almost  immediately.     When  he  arrived,  he  found 

*  A  steep  flisrlu  of  stairs  ( commonly  so  termed)  leading  from  lha 
door  of  his  lodsin'-housc  in  Green  Arbour-court  to  Fleet-market. 


OLIVER  GOLDSiMITH.  xvii 

Goldsmith  in  a  violent  passion  with  the  woman  of  the 
house,  but  consoling  himself  as  well  as  he  could  with 
a  bottle  of  Madeira,  which  he  had  already  purchased 
with  part  of  the  guinea.  Johnson,  corking  the  bottle, 
desireil  Goldsmith  would  be  calm,  and  consider  in 
what  way  he  could  extricate  himself.  The  latter  then 
produced  his  novel,  as  ready  for  the  press.  The 
Doctor  looked  into  it,  saw  its  merit,  and  went  away 
with  it  to  Mr.  Newbery,  who  gave  him  60/.  for  it ; 
with  this  sum  he  returned  to  Goldsmith,  who,  with 
many  invectives,  paid  his  landlady  her  rent.  New- 
bery, however,  seems  not  to  have  been  very  sanguine 
in  his  hopes  of  this  novel ;  for  he  kept  the  MS.  by  him 
near  three  years  unprinted:  his  ready  purchase  of  it, 
probably,  was  in  the  way  of  a  benefaction  to  its  dis- 
tressed author,  rather  than  under  any  idea  of  profit 
by  the  publication. 

Early  in  the  year  1763,  Goldsmith  removed  to 
lodgings  at  Canonbury-house,  Islington,  where  he 
compiled  several  works  for  Mr.  Newbery;  among 
which  were,  'The  Art  of  Poetry,'  '2  vols.  12mo.;  a 
•Life  of  Nash  ;'  and  a  'History  of  England,  in  a  Series 
of  Letters  from  a  Nobleman  to  his  Son.'  This  latter 
book  was  for  a  long  time  attributed  to  George  Lord 
Lyttleton. 

In  the  following  year  he  took  chambers  on  the 
upper  story  of  the  Library  stair-case  in  the  Inner 
Temple,  and  began  to  live  in  a  genteel  style.  Still, 
however,  he  was  little  known,  except  among  the 
booksellers,  till  the  year  1765,  when  he  produced  his 
poem  called  '  The  Traveller ;  or,  A  Prospect  of  So- 
ciety,' which  had  obtained  high  commendation  from 
Dr.  Johnson,  who  declared,  *  that  there  had  not  been 
so  fine  a  poem  since  the  time  of  Pope;'  yet  such  was 
Goldsmith's  diffidence,  that,  though  he  had  com- 
pleted it  some  years  before,  he  had  not  courage  enough 
to  publish,  till  urged  to  it  by  Johnson's  suggestions. 
This  poem  heightened  his  literary  character  with  the 
booksellers,  and  introduced  him  to  several  persons  of 
superior  rauk  and  talents,  as  Lord  Nugent  (afterwards 


xviii  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OP 

earl  of  Clare),  Mr.  Burke,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
Dr.  Nugent,  Mr.  Bennet  Langton,  Mr.  Topham 
Beauclerc,  &c.  and  he  was  elected  one  of  the  first 
members  of  '  The  Literary  Club,'  which  had  been 
just  instituted  by  Johnson,  Burke,  and  Sir  Joshua, 
and  met  at  the  Turk's-head,  Gerard-street,  Soho,  every 
Friday  evening. 

His  pathetic  ballad  of  '  The  Hermit,'  which  was 
also  published  in  1765,  recommended  him  to  the 
Countess  (afterwards  Duchess)  of  Northumberland, 
who  was  a  generous  patroness  of  merit.  In  the  fol- 
lowing year  his  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield'  was  printed,  and 
universally  read  and  admired. 

His  reputation  being  now  fairly  established  as  a 
novelist,  a  poet,  and  a  critic,  Goldsmith  turned  his 
thoughts  to  the  drama,  and  set  about  his  comedy 
called  '  The  Good-natured  Man.'  This  he  first  offered 
to  Garrick,  who,  after  a  long  fluctuation  between 
doubt  aud  encouragement,  at  length  declined  bringing 
it  forward  at  Drury-Iane  theatre;  it  was  therefore  taken 
to  Covent-garden,  accepted  by  Mr.  Colman,  and 
presented   for  the  first  time  on  the  29th  of  January, 

1768.  It  was  acted  nine  times  ;  and  by  the  profits  of 
the  author's  three  third-nights,  with  the  sale  of  the 
copyright,  a  clear  500/.  was  produced. 

With  this,  and  some  money  which  he  had  reserved 
out  of  the  produce  of  a  '  Roman  History,'  in  2  vols. 
8yo.  and  other  works,  he  was  enabled  to  descend  from 
his  attic  story  in  the  Inner  Temple,  and  to  purchase 
for  400/.  and  furnish  elegantly,  a  spacious  set  of 
chambers  on  the  first  floor,  at"  No.  2,  Brick-court, 
Middle  Temple. 

On  the  establishment  of  the  Royal  Academy,  in 

1769,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  recommended  Goldsmith 
to  his  Majesty  for  the  Honorary  Professorship  of  His- 
tory, which  was  graciously  conferred  on  him.  In  the 
following  year  he  produced  that  highly-finished  poerrx 
called  '  The  Deserted  Village.'  Previous  to  its  pub- 
lication, we  are  told,  the  bookseller  (Mr.  Griffin,  of 
Catherine-street,  Strand)  had  given  him  a  note  ol  a 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  xix 

hundred  guineas  for  the  copy.  This  circumstance 
Goldsmith  mentioned  soon  afterwards  to  a  friend,  who 
observed  that  it  was  a  large  sum  for  so  small  a  per« 
formance.  '  In  truth,'  replied  Goldsmith,  '  I  think  so 
too  ;  it  is  near  five  shillings  a  couplet,  which  is  much 
more  than  the  honest  man  can  afford,  and,  indeed, 
more  than  any  modern  poetry  is  worth.  I  have  not 
been  easy  since  I  received  it ;  I  will,  therefore,  go 
back,  and  return  him  his  note  ;'  which  he  actually 
did  :  but  the  sale  was  so  rapid,  that  the  bookseller  soon 
paid  him  the  hundred  guineas,  with  proper  acknow- 
ledgments for  the  generosity  of  his  conduct. 

Soon  after  the  appearance  of  the  Deserted  Village, 
our  author  paid  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Dr.  Parnell, 
in  a  Life  prefixed  to  a  new  edition  of  his  '  Poems  on 
several  Occasions.'  In  the  year  1771,  he  produced 
his  '  History  of  England,  from  the  earliest  Times  to 
the  Death  of  George  II.'  in  4  vols.  8vo. ;  for  which 
Mr.  Thomas  Davies,  the  bookseller,  paid  him  500/. 

The  Earl  of  Lis'ourne,  one  day  at  a  dinner  of  the 
Royal  Academicians,  lamented  to  Goldsmith  that  he 
should  neglect  the  muses,  to  compile  histories  and 
write  novels,  instead  of  penning  poetry,  with  which  he 
was  sure  to  charm  his  readers.  '  My  lord,'  replied  our 
author,  '  in  courting  the  muses  I  should  starve;  but. 
by  my  other  labours  I  eat,  drink,  wear  good  clothes, 
and  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  life.' 

Goldsmith  had,  besides  his  regular  works,  much  of 
the  other  business  of  an  author  by  profession  ;  such  as 
penning  Prefaces  and  Introductions  to  the  books  of 
other  writers ;  some  of  these  have  been  published 
among  his  prose  works;  but,  no  doubt,  many  remain, 
at  this  day  unknown. 

His  second  dramatic  effort,  being  a  comedy  called 
'  She  Stoops  to  Conquer;  or,  The  MisUkes  of  a  Night,' 
was  first  presented  at  Covent-garden  theatre,  March  15, 
1773,  and  received  with  an  applause  fully  adequate  to 
the  author's  sanguine  hopes,  and  contrary  to  the  ex- 
pectations of  Mr.  Colman,  who  had  not  consented  to 
receive  the  piece  but  at  the  earnest  and  reiterated  in- 


six  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

stances  of  many  friends.  What  was  called  sentimental 
comedy  had  at  that  time  got  an  unaccountable  hold  of 
the  public  taste  ;  Kelly  was  subserving  this  un-British 
propensity  by  his  '  False  Delicacy,'  &c.  and  Gold- 
smith's piece  (which  was  designed  by  him  to  brine 
back  the  town  to  a  relish  of  humour)  being  certainly 
in  the  opposite  extreme,  and  hardly  any  thing  else 
than  a  farce  of  five  acts  instead  of  two,  (Jolman,  and 
his  actors  from  him,  had  predestined  the  play  to  con- 
demnation :  when,  therefore,  towards  the  conclusion  of 
the  first  performance,  the  author  expressed  some  appre- 
hension lest  one  of  the  jokes  put  into  the  mouth  of 
Tony  Lumpkin  should  not  be  relished  by  the  audience, 
the  manager,  who  had  been  in  fear  through  the  whole 
piece,  replied,  '  D — n  it,  Doctor,  don't  be  terrified  at 
a  squib ;  why,  we  have  been  sitting  these  two  hours 
on  a  barrel  of  gunpowder.'  Goldsmith's  pride  was  so 
hurt  at  this  remark,  that  the  friendship  which  had  till 
then  subsisted  between  him  and  Colman  was  thence- 
forth annihilated. 

The  piece  had  a  great  run,  and  its  author  cleared 
by  the  third-nights,  and  the  sale  of  the  copy,  upwards 
of  800/.  Dr.  Jonnson  said  of  it,  '  That  he  knew  of 
no  comedy  for  many  years  that  had  so  much  exhila- 
rated an  audience,  that  had  answered  so  much  the 
great  end  of  comedy — the  making  an  audience  merry.' 
It  certainly  added  much  to  the  author's  reputation, 
and  is  still,  with  his  '  Good-natured  Man,'  on  the  list 
of  acting  plays ;  but  it  brought  on  him  the  envy  and 
malignity  of  some  of  his  contemporaries  ;  and  in  the 
London  Packet  of  Wednesday,  March  24,  1773, 
printed  for  T.  Evans,  in  Paternostcr-row,  appeared 
the  following  scurrilous  epistle,  evidently  designed  to 
injure  his  third-night  (being  the  ninth  representa- 
tion) : — 

'  TO    DR.    GOLDSMITH. 

'  Vous  vous  noyez  en  vanitt. 

'  Sin, — The  happy  knack  which  you  have  learnt  of 
purring  your  own  compositions,  provokes  me  to  come 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  xil 

forth.  You  have  not  been  the  editor  of  newspapers 
and  magazines,  not  to  discover  the  trick  of  literary 
humbug.  But  the  gauze  is  so  thin,  that  the  very 
foolish  part  of  the  world  see  through  it,  and  discover 
the  Doctor's  monkey  face  and  cloven  foot.  Your 
poetic  vanity  is  as  unpardonable  as  your  personal. 
Would  man  believe  it,  and  will  woman  bear  it,  to  be 
told  that  for  hours  the  great  Goldsmith  will  stand  sur- 
veying his  grotesque  Oranhotan's  figure  in  a  pier- 
glass?  Was  but  the  lovely  II k  as  much  en- 
amoured, you  would  not  sigh,  my  gentle  swain,  in 
vain.  But  your  vanity  is  preposterous.  How  will 
this  same  bard  of  Bedlam  ring  the  changes  in  praise 
of  Goldy  !  But  what  has  he  to  be  either  proud  or 
vain  of?  The  "  Traveller"  is  a  flimsy  poem,  built 
upon  false  principles  ;  principles  diametrically  opposite 
to  liberty.  What  is  "  The  Good-natured  Man,"  but 
a  poor,  water-gruel,  dramatic  dose?  What  is  "  The 
Deserted  Village,"  but  a  pretty  poem  of  easy  numbers, 
without  fancy,  dignity,  genius,  or  fire?  And  pray 
what  mav  be  the  last  speaking  pantomime,*  so  praised 
by  the  Doctor  himself,  but  an  incoherent  piece  of 
stuff,  the  figure  of  a  woman  with  a  fish's  tail,  without 
plot,  incident,  or  intrigue?  We  are  made  to  laugh  at 
6tale,  dull  jokes,  wherein  we  mistake  pleasantry  for 
wit,  and  grimace  for  humour :  wherein  every  scene  is 
unnatural,  and  inconsistent  with  the  rules,  the  laws  of 
nature,  and  of  the  drama  ;  viz.  Two  gentlemen  come 
to  a  man  of  fortune's  house,  eat,  drink,  sleep,  &c.  and 
take  it  for  an  inn.  The  one  is  intended  as  a  lover  to 
the  daughter;  he  talks  with  her  for  some  hours,  and 
when  he  sees  her  again  in  a  different  dress,  he  treats 
her  as  a  bar-girl,  and  swears  she  squinted.  He  abusi  s 
the  master  of  the  house,  and  threatens  to  kick  him  out 
of  his  own  doors.  The  'Squire,  whom  we  are  told  is 
to  be  a  fool,  proves  to  be  the  most  sensible  being  of 
the  piece  ;  and  he  makes  out  a  whole  act  by  bidding 
his  mother  lie  close  behind  a  bush,  persuading  her, 
that  his  father,  her  own  husband,  is  a  highwayman 

•  Meaning  '  Slie  Stoops  to  ConqtuT.' 


ssii  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

and  that  he  is  come  to  cut  their  throats;  and  to  give 
his  cousin  an  opportunity  to  go  off,  he  drives  his 
mother  over  hedges,  ditches,  and  through  ponds.  There 
is  not,  sweet  sacking  Johnson,  a  natural  stroke  in  the 
whole  play,  but  the  young  fellow's  giving  the  stolen 
jewels  to  the  mother,  supposing  her  to  be  the  landlady. 
That  Mr.  Colman  did  no  justice  to  this  piece,  1 
honestly  allow  ;  that  he  told  all  his  friends  it  wou id 
be  damned,  I  positively  aver ;  and  from  such  unge- 
nerous insinuations,  without  a  dramatic  merit,  it  rose 
to  public  notice  ;  and  it  is  now  the  ton  to  go  to  see  it, 
though  I  never  saw  a  person,  that  either  liked  it  or 
approved  it,  any  more  than  the  absurd  plot  of  the 
Home's  tragedy  of  Alonzo.  IMr.  Goldsmith,  correct 
your  arrogance,  reduce  your  vanity,  and  endeavour  to 
believe,  as  a  man,  you  are  of  the  plainest  sort ;  and 
as  an  author,  but  a  mortal  piece  of  mediocrity. 
'  IJrisez  le  miroir  injidele, 
Qui  ious  cache  la  veriti. 

'  Tom  Tickle.' 

By  one    of  those  '  d d   good-natured  friends' 

who  are  described  by  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  the  news- 
paper containing  the  foregoing  offensive  letter  was 
eagerly  brought  to  Goldsmith,  who  otherwise  perhaps 
had  never  seen  or  heard  of  it.  Our  hero  went  to  the 
shop  brimful  of  ire,  and  finding  Evans  behind  his 
counter,  thus  addressed  him  :  *  You  have  published 
a  thing  in  your  paper  (my  name  is  Goldsmith)  re- 
flecting upon  a  young  lady.  As  for  myself,  I  do  not 
mind  it' — Evans  at  this  moment  stooped  down,  in- 
tending- probably  to  look  for  a  paper,  that  he  might 
see  what  the  enraged  author  meant;  when  Goldsmith, 
observing  his  back  to  present  a  fair  mark  for  his  cane, 
laid  it  on  lustily.  The  bibliopolist,  however,  soon  de- 
fended himself,  and  a  scuffle  ensued,  in  which  our 
author  got  his  full  share  of  blows.  Dr.  Kenrick,  who 
was  sitting  in  Evans's  counting-house  ("and  who  was 
strongly  suspected  to  have  been  the  writer  of  the 
letter^),  now  came  forward,  parted  the  combatants, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  xxiii 

and   sent  HoMsmith    home    in    a  coach    grievously 
bruised. 

This  attack  upon  a  man  in  his  own  house  furnished 
matter  of  discussion  for  some  days  to  the  newspapers  ; 
and  an  action  at  law  was  threatened  to  be  brought  for 
the  assault ;  but  by  the  interposition  of  friends  the 
affair  was  compromised  ;  and  on  Wednesday  the  31st 
of  March,  Goldsmith  inserted  the  following-  Address 
in  the  Daily  Advertiser  : 

'  TO  THE  FUBLIC. 

'  Lf.st  it  should  be  supposed  that  I  have  been  will- 
ing to  correct  in  others  an  abuifi  of  which  1  have  been 
guilty  myself,  I  beg  leave  to  declare,  that  in  all  my 
life  1  never  wrote,  or  dictated,  a  single  paragraph, 
letter,  or  essay,  in  a  newspaper,  except  a  few  moral 
essays,  under  the  character  of  a  Chinese,  about  ten 
years  ago,  in  the  Ledger  ;  and  a  letter,  to  which  1 
signed  my  name,  in  the  St.  James's  Chronicle.  If 
the  liberty  of  the  press  therefore  has  been  abused,  1 
have  had  no  hand  in  it. 

'  1  have  always  considered  the  press  as  the  protec- 
tor of  our  freedom,  as  a  watchful  guardian,  capable 
of  uniting  the  weak  against  the  encroachments  of 
power.  What  concerns  the  public  most  properly  ad- 
mits of  a  public  discussion.  Hut,  of  late,  the  press 
has  turned  from  defending  public  interest,  to  making 
inroads  upon  private  life  ;  from  combating  the  strong, 
to  overwhelming  the  feeble.  No  condition  is  now  too 
obscure  for  its  abuse,  and  the  protector  is  become  the 
tyrant  of  the  people.  In  this  manner  the  freedom  of 
the  press  is  beginning  to  sow  the  seeds  of  its  own  dis- 
solution ;  the  great  must  oppose  it  from  principle,  and 
the  weak  from  fear  ;  till  at  last  every  rank  of  mankind 
shall  be  found  to  give  up  its  benefits,  content  with 
Eecurity  from  its  insults. 

'  How  to  put  a  stop  to  this  licentiousness,  by  which 
all  are  indiscriminately  abused,  and  by  which  vice 
consequently  escapes  in   the  general   censure,   I   am 


itiiv  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

unable  to  tell ;  all  I  could  wish  is,  that,  as  the  law 
gives  us  no  protection  against  the  injury,  so  it  should 
give  calumniators  no  shelter  after  having  provoked 
correction.  The  insults  which  we  receive  before  the 
public,  by  being  more  open,  are  the  more  distressing. 
By  treating  them  with  silent  contempt,  we  do  not  pay 
a  sufficient  deference  to  the  opinion  of  the  world.  By 
recurring  to  legal  redress,  we  too  often  expose  the 
weakness  of  the  law,  which  only  serves  to  increase 
our  mortification  by  failing  to  relieve  us.  In  short, 
eveiy  man  should  singly  consider  himself  as  a  guar- 
dian of  the  liberty  of  the  press,  and,  as  far  as  his  in- 
fluence can  extend,  should  endeavour  to  prevent  its 
licentiousness  becoming  at  last  the  grave  of  its 
freedom. 

'  Oliver  Goldsmith.' 

Mr.  Boswell  having  intimated  to  Dr.  Johnson  his 
suspicions  that  he  was  the  real  writer  of  this  Address, 
the  latter  said,  '  Sir,  Dr.  Goldsmith  would  no  more 
have  asked  me  to  have  written  such  a  thing  as  that 
for  him,  than  he  would  have  asked  me  to  feed  him 
with  a  spoon,  or  to  do  any  thing  else  that  denoted  his 
imbecility.  I  as  much  believe  that  he  wrote  it,  as  if 
I  had  seen  him  do  it.  Sir,  had  he  shewn  it  to  any 
one  friend,  he  would  not  have  been  allowed  to  pub- 
lish it.  He  has  indeed  done  it  very  well  ;  but  it  is  a 
foolish  thing  well  done.  I  suppose  he  has  been  so 
much  elated  with  the  success  of  his  new  comedy,  that 
he  has  thought  every  thing  tha:  concerns  him  must 
be  of  importance  to  the  public' 

About  a  mouth  after  this,  to  oblige  Mr.  Quick,  the 
comedian,  who  had  very  successfully  exerted  himself 
in  the  character  of  Tony  Lumpkin,  Goldsmith,  we 
believe,  reduced  Sedley's  '  Grumbler'  to  a  farce; 
and  it  was  performed  for  Mr.  Quick's  benefit  on  the 
8th  of  May,  but  was  never  printed  :  indeed,  some 
persons  doubt  whether  Goldsmith  did  more  than  re- 
vise an  alteration  which  had  been  made  by  some  other 
person. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  .  xsv 

Our  author  now,  oddly  enough,  took  it  into  his 
head  to  reject  the  title  of  Doctor  (with  which  he  had 
been  self-invested),  and  to  assume  the  plain  address 
of  Mr-.  Goldsmith  ;  but  whatever  his  motive  to  this 
might  be,  he  could  not  effect  it  with  the  public,  who 
to  the  day  of  his  death  called  him  Doctor ;  and  the 
same  title  is  usually  annexed  to  his  name  even  now, 
though  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Physic  was  the 
highest  ever  actually  conferred  upon  him. 

After  having  compiled  a  History  of  Rome,  and  two 
Histories  of  England,  he  undertook,  and  completed  in 
1773,  'A  History  of  the  Earth  and  Animated  Nature,' 
in  8  vols.  8vo.  which  was  printed  in  1774,  and  he  re- 
ceived for  it  850/. 

The  emoluments  which  he  had  derived  from  his 
writings  for  some  few  years  past  were,  indeed,  very 
considerable  ;  but  were  rendered  useless  in  effect,  by 
an  incautious  liberality,  which  prevented  his  distin- 
guishing proper  from  improper  objects  of  his  bounty; 
and  also  by  an  unconquerable  itch  for  gaming,  a 
pursuit  in  which  his  impatience  of  temper,  and  his 
want  of  skill,  wholly  disqualified  him  for  succeeding. 

His  last  production,  '  Retaliation,'  was  written  for 
his  own  amusement,  and  that  of  his  friends  who  were 
the  subjects  of  it.  That  he  did  not  live  to  finish  it  is 
to  be  lamented  ;  for  it  is  supposed  that  he  would  have 
introduced  more  characters.  What  he  has  left,  how- 
ever, is  nearly  perfect  in  its  kind  ;  with  wonderful  art 
he  has  traced  all  the  leading  features  of  his  several 
portraits,  and  given  with  truth  the  characteristic  pe- 
culiarities of  each  :  no  man  is  lampooned,  and  no  m.in 
is  flattered.  The  occasion  of  the  poe'u  was  a  circum- 
stance of  festivity.  A  literary  party  with  which  he 
occasionally  dined  at  the  St.  James's  coffee-house  one 
day  proposed  to  write  epitaphs  on  him.  In  these,  his 
person,  dialect,  &c.  were  good-humouredly  ridiculed  ; 
and  as  Goldsmith  could  not  disguise  his  feelings  on 
the  occasion,  he  was  called  upon  for  a  ''Retaliation, 
which  he  produced  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  party  ; 
but   this,    with   his  '  Haunch  of  Venison,''   and    some 


*xvi  AIKIN'3  MEMOIRS  OF 

other  short  poems,  were  not  printed  till  after  his 
death. 

He  had  at  this  time  ready  for  the  press,  *  The 
Grecian  History,  from  the  earliest  State  to  the  Death 
of  Alexander  the  Great,'  which  was  afterwards  printed 
in  2  vols.  8vo.  He  had  also  formed  a  design  of  com- 
piling a  '  Universal  Dictionary  of  Arts  and  Sciences,' 
a  prospectus  of  which  he  printed  and  sent  to  his 
friends,  many  of  whom  had  promised  to  furnish  him 
with  articles  on  different  subjects.  The  booksellers, 
however,  though  they  had  a  high  opinion  of  his  abili- 
ties, were  startled  at  the  bulk,  importance,  and  ex- 
pense of  so  great  an  undertaking,  the  execution  of 
which  was  to  depend  upon  a  man  with  whose  indo- 
lence of  temper,  and  method  of  procrastination,  they 
had  long  been  acquainted  :  the  coldness  with  which 
they  met  his  proposals  was  lamented  by  Goldsmith  to 
the  hour  of  his  death  ;  which  seems  to  have  been  ac- 
celerated by  a  neglect  of  his  health,  occasioned  by 
continual  vexation  of  mind  on  account  of  his  fre- 
quently involved  circumstances,  although  the  last 
year's  produce  of  his  labour  is  generally  believed  to 
have  amounted  to  1800Z. 

In  the  spring  of  1774  he  was  attacked  in  a  very  se- 
vere manner  by  the  strangury,  a  disease  of  which  he 
had  often  experienced  slight  symptoms.  It  now  in- 
duced a  nervous  fever,  which  required  medical  assist- 
ance; and  on  the  25th  of  March  he  sent  for  his  fnend 
Mr.  (afterwards  Dr.)  Hawes,  to  whom  he  related  the 
symptoms  of  his  malady,  expressing  at  the  same  time  a 
disgust  with  life,  and  a  despondency  which  did  not 
well  become  a  man  of  his  understanding.  He  told 
Mr.  Hawes  that  he  had  taken  two  ounces  of  ipeca- 
cuanha wine  as  an  emetic,  and  that  it  was  his  inten- 
tion to  take  Dr.  James's  fever  powders,  which  he 
desired  he  would  send  him.  Mr.  Hawes  represented 
to  his  patient  the  impropriety  of  taking  the  medicine 
at  that  time  ;  but  no  argument  could  induce  him  to 
relinquish  his  intention.  Finding  this,  and  justly  ap- 
prehensive of  the  fatal  consequences  of  his  putting 


OLIVEIt  GOLDSMITH.  i.xvii 

this  rash  resolve  in  execution,  he  requested  permis- 
sion to  send  for  Dr.  Fordyce,  of  whose  medical  abi- 
lities he  knew  that  Goldsmith  had  the  highest  opinion. 
Dr.  Fordyce  came,  and  corroborated  the  apothecary's 
assertion,  adding  every  argument  that  he  could  think 
of  to  dissuade  him  from  using  the  powders  in  the  pre- 
sent case ;  but,  deaf  to  all  the  remonstrances  of  his 
physician  and  his  friend,  he  obstinately  persisted  in 
his  resolution. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Ilawes  again  visited  his  patient, 
and  inquiring  of  him  how  he  did,  Goldsmith  sighed 
deeply,  and  in  a  dejected  tone  said,  '  I  wish  1  had 
taken  your  friendly  advice  last  night.'  Dr.  Fordyce 
came,  and,  finding  the  alarming  symptoms  increase, 
desired  Mr.  Ilawes  to  propose  sending  for  Dr.  Tur- 
ton  :  to  this  Goldsmith  readily  consented.  The  two 
physicians  met,  and  held  consultations  twice  a  day 
till  Monday,  April  4,  when  their  patient  died. 

Warmth  of  affection  induced  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
and  other  friends  of  Goldsmith  to  lay  a  plan  for  a 
sumptuous  public  funeral  ;  according  to  which  he  was 
to  have  been  interred  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  his 
pall  to  have  been  supported  by  Lord  Shelburne  (after- 
wards Marquisof  Lansdowne),  Lord  Louth,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  Mr.  Edmund  Burke,  the  Hon.  Topham 
Beauclerc,  and  Mr.  Gairick  :  but  on  a  slight  inspec- 
tion of  his  affairs  it  was  found  that,  so  far  from  hav- 
ing left  property  to  justify  so  expensive  a  proceeding, 
he  was  about  2000L  in  debt.  The  original  inten- 
tion, therefore,  was  abandoned  ;  and  he  was  privately 
interred  in  the  Temple  burial-ground  at  five  o'clock 
on  Saturday  evening,  April  9,  attended  by  the  Rev. 
Joseph  Palmer  (nephew  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and 
afterwards  Dean  of  Cashel  in  Ireland),  Mr.  Hugh 
Kelly,  Mr.  (afterwards  Dr.)  Ilawes,  Messrs.  John 
and  Robert  Day,  and  Mr.  Etherington. 

A  subsciiption,  however,  was  speedily  raised  nmong 
Goldsmith's  friends,  but  chiefly  by  the  Literary  Club  ; 
and  a  marble  monumental  stone,  executed  by  Nolle- 
kens,  consisting  of  a  large  medallion  exhibiting  a 
.  Z 


xxviii  AIKIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

resemblance  of  our  author  in  profile,  embellished  with 
appropriate  ornaments,  was  placed  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  between  those  of  Gay  the  poet  and  the  Duke 
of  Argyle,  in  Poets'  Corner  ;  having  underneath,  on 
a  tablet  of  white  marble,  the  following  inscription, 
from  the  pen  of  his  friend  Dr.  Johnson  : 

Olivarii  Goldsmith, 

PoetEe,  Physici,  Historici, 

Qui  nullum  fere  scribendi  genus 

Non  tetigit ; 

Nullum  quod  tetigit  non  ornavit: 

Sire  risus  essent  movendi 

Sive  lacrymse, 

Afiectuum  potens  et  lenis  dominator: 

Ingenio  sublimis,  vividus,  versatilis, 

Oratione  grandis,  nitidus,  venustus; 

Hoc  monumento  memoriain  coluit 

Sodalium  amor, 

Amicorum  fides, 

Lectorum  veneratio. 

Natus  in  Hibeniia,  Forneia:  Longfordiensis, 

In  loco  cui  nomen  Pallas, 

Nov.  XXIX.  MDCCXXXI.* 

Eblanae  Uteris  institutus, 

Obiit  Londiiii, 

Apr.  IV.  MDCCLXXIV. 

Of  which  the  following  is  a  translation  : — 

By  the  love  of  bis  associates. 

The  fidelity  of  his  friends, 

And  the  veneration  of  his  readers, 

This  monument  is  raised 

To  the  memory  of 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 

A  poet,  a  natural  philosopher,  and  an  historian, 

Who  left  no  species  of  writing  untouched  by  his  pen; 

Nor  touched  any  that  he  did  not  embellish : 

Whether  smiles  or  tears  were  to  be  excited, 

He  was  a  powerful  yet  gentle  master 

Over  the  affections; 

•  Johnson  had  been  misinformed  in  these  particulars:  it  has  been 
iinee  ascertained  that  he  was  born  at  Elphin,  in  the  county  of  Ros- 
common, Nov.  29,  1728. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  xxjx 

Of  a  genius  at  on;e  sublime,  lively,  and 

equal  to  every  subject; 

In  expression  at  once  lofty,  elegant,  and  graceful. 

He  was  born  in  the  kingdom  of  Ireland, 

At  a  place  called  Pallas,  in  the  parish  of  Forney, 

And  county  of  Longford, 

29th  Nov.  1731.* 

Educated  at  Dublin, 

And  died  in  London, 

4th  April,  1774. 

Beside  this  Latin  epitaph,  Dr.  Johnson  honoured 
the  memory  of  Goldsmith  with  the  following  short 
one  in  Greek  : — 

Tov  Tcttpov  aropaa.;  toi  OXifixpioio,  xoviriv 

"Atpgoiri  ph  ff£fivnv,  Earn,  wo$<triri  Trclrit' 
(  7ri  fiif*.z)-z  Qvtris,  /xirgcov  ^ajiis,  'igjyot,  vruXaumi 
KXaiWt  Toitirnv,  ttrrogucoy,  tpv/rixov. 

Mr.  Boswell,  who  was  very  intimately  acquainted 
with  Goldsmith,  thus  speaks  of  his  person  and  cha- 
racter : — 

'  The  person  of  Goldsmith  was  short;  his  counte- 
nance coarse  and  vulgar ;  his  deportment  that  of  a 
scholar,  awkwardly  affecting  the  complete  gentleman. 
No  man  had  the  art  of  displaying,  with  more  ad- 
vantage, whatever  literary  acquisitions  he-  made.  His 
mind  resembled  a  fertile  but  thin  soil ;  there  was  a 
quick  but  not  a  strong  vegetation  of  whatever  chanced 
to  be  thrown  upon  it.  No  deep  root  could  be  struck. 
The  oak  of  the  forest  did  not  grow  there ;  but  the 
elegant  shrubbery,  and  the  fragrant  parterre,  appeared 
in  gay  succession.  It  has  been  generally  circulated, 
and  believed,  that  he  was  a  mere  fool  in  conversation. 
In  allusion  to  this,  Mr.  Horatio  VValpole,  who  admired 
his  writings,  said,  he  was  "  an  inspired  idiot ;"  and 
Garrick  describes  him  as  one, — 


for  shortness  call'd  Noll, 


Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  and  talk'd  like  poor  Poll " 
*  See  the  Nolo  in  the  preceding  page. 


sxx.  AIKJLV3  MKM0U15  OP 

But,  in  reality,  these  descriptions  are  greatly  exagge« 
rated.  He  had,  no  doubt,  a  more  than  common  share 
of  that  hurry  of  ideas,  which  we  often  find  in  his 
countrymen,  and  which  sometimes  introduces  a  laugh- 
able confusion  in  expressing  them.  He  was  very  much 
what  the  French  call  un  ttourdi:  and  from  vanity, 
and  an  eager  desire  of  being  conspicuous  wherever  he 
was,  he  frequently  talked  carelessly,  without  any 
knowledge  of  ihe  subject,  or  even  without  thought. 
Those  who  were  any  ways  distinguished,  excited  envy 
in  him  to  so  ridiculous  an  excess,  that  the  instances  of 
it  are  hardly  credible.  He,  I  am  told,  had  no  settled 
system  of  any  sort,  so  that  his  conduct  must  not  be 
too  strictly  criticised ;  but  his  affections  were  social 
and  generous ;  and  when  he  had  money,  he  bestowed 
it  liberally.  His  desires  of  imaginary  consequence 
frequently  predominated  over  his  attention  to  truth. 

'  His  prose  has  been  admitted  as  the  model  of  per- 
fection, and  the  standard  of  the  English  language. 
Dr.  Johnson  says,  "  Goldsmith  was  a  man  of  such 
variety  of  powers,  and  such  felicity  of  performance, 
that  he  seemed  to  excel  in  whatever  he  attempted ;  a 
man  who  had  the  art  of  being  minute  without  tedious- 
ness,  and  generally  without  confusion  ;  whose  lan- 
guage was  capacious  without  exuberance  ;  exact  with- 
out restraint ;  and  easy  without  weakness." 

'  His  merit  as  a  poet  is  universally  acknowledged. 
His  writings  partake  rather  of  the  elegance  and  har- 
mony of  Pope,  than  the  grandeur  and  sublimity  of 
Milton  ;  and  it  is  to  be  lamented,  that  his  poetical 
productions  are  rrot  more  numerous ;  for  though  his 
ideas  flowed  rapidly,  he  arranged  them  with  great 
caution,  and  occupied  much  time  in  polishing  his 
periods,  and  harmonizing  his  numbers. 

'  His  most  favourite  poems  are,  "The  Traveller," 
"  Deserted  Village,"  "  Hermit,"  and  "  Retaliation." 
These  productions  may  justly  be  ranked  with  the  most 
admired  works  in  English  poetry. 

'  "  The  Traveller"  delights  us  with  a  display  of 
charming  imagery,  refined  ideas,  and  happy  expres- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  xxxi 

sions.     The  characteristics  of  the  different  nations  are 
strongly  marked,  and  the  predilection  of  each  inha 
bitant  in  favour  of  his  own  ingeniously  described. 

'  "  The  Deserted  Village"  is  generally  admired  ; 
the  characters  are  drawn  from  the  life.  The  descrip- 
tions are  lively  and  picturesque  ;  and  the  whole  appears 
so  easy  and  natural,  as  to  bear  the  semblance  of  his- 
torical truth  more  than  poetical  fiction.  The  descrip- 
tion of  the  parish  priest  (probably  intended  for  a 
charac'er  of  his  brother  Henry)  would  have  done 
honour  to  any  poet  of  any  age.  In  this  description, 
the  simile  of  the  bird  teaching  her  young  to  fly,  and  of 
the  mountain  that  rises  above  the  storm,  are  not  easily 
to  be  paralleled.  The  rest  of  the  poem  consists  of  the 
character  of  the  village  schoolmaster,  and  a  description 
of  the  village  alehouse  ;  both  drawn  with  admirable 
propriety  and  force  ;  a  descant  on  the  mischiefs  of 
luxury  and  wealth  ;  the  variety  of  artificial  pleasures  ; 
the  miseries  of  those  who,  for  want  of  employment  at 
home,  are  driven  to  settle  new  colonies  abroad  ;  and 
concludes  with  a  beautiful  apostrophe  to  poetry. 

'  "The  Hermit"  holds  equal  estimation  with  the 
rest  of  his  poetical  productions. 

'  His  last  poem,  of  "  Retaliation,"  is  replete  with 
humour,  free  from  spleen,  and  forcibly  exhibits  the 
prominent  features  of  the  several  characters  to  which 
it  alludes.  Dr.  Johnson  sums  up  his  literary  cha- 
racter in  the  following  concise  manner :  "  Take  him 
[Goldsmith]  as  a  poet,  his  '  Traveller'  is  a  very  fine 
performance  ;  and  so  is  his  '  Deserted  Village,'  were 
it  not  sometimes  too  much  the  echo  of  his  '  Traveller.' 
Whether  we  take  him  as  a  poet,  as  a  comic  writer,  or 
as  an  historian,  he  stands  in  the  first  class."  * 

We  have  before  observed,  that  his  poem  of  '  Reta- 
liation' was  provoked  by  several  jocular  epitaphs 
written  upon  him  by  the  different  members  of  a  dinner 
club  to  which  he  belonged.  Of  these  we  subjoin  a 
part  of  that  which  was  produced  by  Garrick  : — ■ 

'  Here,  Hermes,  says  Jove,  who  with  nectar  was  mellow, 
CJo,  fetch  me  some  clay — I  Mill  make  an  odd  fellow. 


xxxii  AIIUN'S  MEMOIRS  OF 

Right  and  wrong  shaU  be  jumbled ;  much  gold,  and  some 

dross ; 
Without  cause  be  he  pleased,  without  cause  bs  he  cress  : 
Be  sure,  as  I  work,  to  throw  in  contradictions ; 
A  great  lover  of  truth,  yet  a  mind  turn'd  to  fictions. 
Now  mix  these  ingredients,  which,  warm'd  in  the  baking, 
Turn  to  learning  and  gaming,  religion  and  raking; 
With  the  love  of  a  wench,  let  his  writings  be  chaste, 
Tip  his  tongue  with  strange  matter,  his  pen  with  fine 

taste ; 
That  the  rake  and  the  poet  o'er  all  may  prevail, 
Set  fire  to  his  head,  and  set  fire  to  his  tail ; 
For  the  joy  of  each  sex  on  the  world  I'll  bestow  it, 
This  scholar,  rake,  Christian,  dupe,  gamester,  and  poet. 
Though  a  mixture  so  odd,  he  shall  merit  great  fame, 
And  among  brother  mortals  be  Goldsmith  his  name. 
When  on  earth  this  strange  meteor  no  more  shall  appear. 
You,  Hermes,  shall  fetch  him,  to  make  us  sport  here.' 

To  these  we  shall  add  another  sketch  of  our  author 
(by  way  of  Epitaph),  written  by  3  friend  as  soon  as 
he  heard  of  his  death  : — 

'  Here  rests  from  the  cares  of  the  world  and  his  pen, 
A  poet  whose  like  wt  shall  scarce  meet  again; 
Who,  though  form'd  in  an  age  whefe  corruptions  ran  high: 
And  folly  alone  seem'd  with  folly  to  vie ; 
When  Genius,  with  traffic  too  commonly  train 'd, 
Recounted  her  merits  by  what  she  had  gain'd, 
Yet  spurn'd  at  those  walks  of  debasement  and  pelf, 
And  in  poverty's  spite  dared  to  think  for  himself. 
Thus  freed  from  those  fetters  the  muses  oft  bind, 
He  wrote  from  the  heart  to  the  hearts  of  mankind ; 
And  such  was  the  prevalent  force  of  his  song, 
Sex,  ages,  and  parties,  he  drew  in  a  throng. 

*  The  lovers — 'twas  theirs  to  esteem  and  commend, 
For  his  Hermit  had  proved  him  their  tutor  and  friend. 
The  statesman,  his  politic  passions  on  fire, 
Acknowledged  repose  from  the  charms  of  his  lyre. 
The  moralist  too  had  a  feel  for  his  rhymes, 
For  his  Essays  were  curbs  on  the  rage  of  the  times. 
Nay,  the  critic,  all  school'd  in  grammatical  sense, 
Who  look'd  in  the  glow  of  description  ior  tense, 
Reform'd  as  he  read,  fell  a  dupe  to  his  art, 
And  confess'd  by  his  eyes  what  he  felt  at  his  heart. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  xxxiii 

'  Yet,  bless'd  with  original  powers  like  these, 
His  principal  forte  was  on  paper  to  please  ; 
Like  a  fleet-footed  hunter,  though  first  in  the  chase, 
On  the  road  of  plain  sense  he  oft  slacken'd  his  pace ; 
Whilst  Dulness  and  Cunning,  by  whipping  and  goring. 
Their  hard-footed  hackneys  paraded  before  him. 
Compounded  likewise  of  such  primitive  parts, 
That  his  manners  alone  would  have  gain'd  him  our  hearts. 
So  simple  in  truth,  so  ingenuously  kind, 
So  ready  to  feel  for  the  wants  of  mankind ; 
Yet  praise  but  an  author  of  popular  quill, 
This  lux  of  philanthropy  quickly  stood  still ; 
Transform'd  from  himself,  he  grew  meanly  severe, 
And  rail'd  at  those  talents  he  ought  not  to  fear. 

•  Such  then  were  his  foibles ;  but  though  they  were  such 
As  shadow'd  the  picture  a  little  too  much, 
The  style  was  all  graceful,  expressive,  and  grand, 
And  the  whole  the  result  of  a  masterly  hand. 

■  Then  hear  me,  blest  spirit !  now  seated  above, 
Where  all  is  beatitude,  concord,  and  love, 
If  e'er  thy  regards  were  bestow'd  on  mankind, 
Thy  muse  as  a  legacy  leave  us  bbhinl. 
I  ask  it  by  proxy  for  letters  and  fame, 
As  the  pride  of  our  heart  and  the  old  English  name. 
I  demand  it  as  such  for  virtue  and  truth, 
As  the  solace  of  age,  and  the  guide  of  our  youth. 
Consider  what  poets  surround  us — how  dull ! 

From  Minstrelsy  B e  to  Rosamond  H— 111 

Consider  what  K— ys  enervate  the  stage  ; 

Consider  what  K cks  may  poison  the  age ; 

O  !  protect  us  from  such,  nor  let  it  be  said, 

That  ia  Goldsmith  the  last  British  poet  lies  dead  i* 


ON    THE 

POETRY  OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH: 

BY  DR.  AIKIN. 


Among  those  false  opinions  which,  having  once  ob- 
tained currency,  have  been  adopted  without  examina- 
tion, may  be  reckoned  the  prevalent  notion,  that, 
notwithstanding  the  improvement  of  this  country  in 
many  species  of  literary  composition,  its  poetical 
character  has  been  on  the  decline  ever  since  the  sup- 
posed Augustan  age  of  the  beginning  of  this  [the  18th] 
century.  No  one  poet,  it  is  true,  has  fully  succeeded 
to  the  laurel  of  Dryden  or  Pope  ;  but  if  without  pre- 
judice we  compare  the  minor  poets  of  the  present  age 
(minor,  I  mean,  with  respect  to  the  quantity,  not  the 
quality,  of  their  productions),  with  those  of  any  former 
period,  we  shall,  I  am  convinced,  find  them  greatly 
superior  not  only  in  taste  and  correctness,  but  in  every 
other  point  of  poetical  excellence.  The  works  of 
many  late  and  present  writers  might  be  confidently 
appealed  to  in  proof  of  this  assertion  ;  but  it  will 
suffice  to  instance  the  author  who  is  the  subject  of 
the  present  Essay ;  and  I  cannot  for  a  moment  hesi- 
tate to  place  the  name  of  Goldsmith,  as  a  poet,  above 
that  of  Addison,  Parnell,  Tickell,  Congreve,  Lansdown, 
or  any  of  those  who  fill  the  greater  part  of  the  vo- 
luminous collection  of  the  English  Poets.  Of  these, 
the  main  body  has  obtained  a  prescriptive  right  to  the 
honour  of  classical  writers  ;  while  their  works,  ranged 
on  the  shelves  as  necessary  appendages  to  a  modern 
library,  are  rarely  taken  down,  and  contribute  very 


ON  DR.  GOLDSMITH'S  POETRY.         xxxv 

little  to  the  stock  of  literary  amusement.  Whereas 
the  pieces  of  Goldsmith  are  our  familiar  companions; 
and  supply  passages  for  recollection,  when  our  minds 
are  either  composed  to  moral  reflection,  or  warmed  by 
strong  emotions  and  elevated  conceptions.  There  is, 
I  acknowledge,  much,  of  habit  and  accident  in  the 
attachments  we  form  to  particular  writers  ;  yet  I  have 
little  doubt,  that  if  the  lovers  of  English  poetry  were 
confined  to  a  small  selection  of  authors,  Goldsmith 
would  find  a  place  in  the  favourite  list  of  a  great 
majority.  And  it  is,  I  think,  with  much  justice  that 
a  great  modern  critic  has  ever  regarded  this  concur- 
rence of  publ-ic  favour,  as  one  of  the  least  equivocal 
tests  of  uncommon  merit.  Some  kinds  of  excellence, 
it  is  true,  will  more  readily  be  recognized  than  others  ; 
and  this  will  not  always  be  in  proportion  to  the  degree 
of  mental  power  employed  in  the  respective  produc 
tions :  but  he  who  obtains  general  and  lasting  ap- 
plause in  any  work  of  art,  must  have  happily  executed 
a  design  judiciously  formed.  This  remark  is  of  funda- 
mental consequence  in  estimating  the  poetry  of  Gold- 
smith ;  because  it  will  enable  us  to  hold  the  balance 
steady,  when  it  might  be  disposed  to  incline  to  the 
superior  claims  of  a  style  of  loftier  pretension,  and 
more  brilliant  reputation. 

Compared  with  many  poets  of  deserved  eminence, 
Goldsmith  will  appear  characterized  by  hk  simplicity. 
In  his  language  will  be  found  few  of  t'hose  figures 
which  are  supposed  of  themselves  to  constitute  poetry  ; 
— no  violent  transpositions  ;  no  uncommon  meanings 
aDd  constructions ;  no  epithets  drawn  from  abstract 
and  remote  ideas;  no  coinage  of  new  words  by  the 
ready  mode  of  turning  nouns  into  verbs  ;  no  bold 
prosopopoeia,  or  audacious  metaphor: — it  scarcely 
contains  an  expression  which  might  not  be  used  in 
eloquent  and  descriptive  pro-e.  It  is  replete  with 
imagery ;  but  that  imagery  is  drawn  from  obvious 
sources,  and  rather  enforces  the  simple  idea,  than 
dazzles  by  new  and  unexpected  ones.     It  rejects  not 


xs.-s.fi  ON  THE  POETRY 

common  words  and  phrases;  and,  like  the  language 
of  Dryden  and  Otway,  is  thereby  rendered  the  more 
forcible  and  pathetic.  It  is  eminently  nervous  and 
concise  ;  and  hence  affords  numerous  passages  which 
dwell  on  the  memory.  With  respect  to  his  matter, 
it  is  taken  from  human  life,  and  the  objects  of  nature. 
It  does  not  body  forth  things  unknown,  and  create 
new  beings.  Its  humbler  purpose  is  to  represent 
manners  and  characters  as  they  really  exist ;  to  im- 
press strongly  on  the  heart  moral  and  political  senti- 
ments ;  and  to  fill  the  imagination  with  a  variety  of 
pleasing  or  affecting  objects  selected  from  the  stores  of 
nature.  If  this  be  not  the  highest  department  of 
poetry,  it  has  the  advantage  of  being  the  most  univer- 
sally agreeable.  To  receive  delight  from  the  sublime 
fictions  of  iMilton,  the  allegories  of  Spenser,  the  learn- 
ing of  Gray,  and  the  fancy  of  Collins,  the  mind  must 
have  been  prepared  by  a  course  of  particular  study  ; 
and  perhaps,  at  a  certain  period  of  life,  when  the 
judgment  exercises  a  severer  scrutiny  over  the  sallies 
of  the  imagination,  the  relish  for  artificial  beauties  will 
always  abate,  if  not  entirely  desert  us.  But  at  every 
age,  and  with  every  degree  of  culture,  correct  and 
well-chosen  representations  of  nature  must  please. 
We  admire  them  when  young  ;  we  recur  to  them 
when  old  ;  and  they  charm  us  till  nothing  longer  can 
charm.  Farther,  in  forming  a  scale  of  excellence  for 
artists,  we  are  not  only  to  consider  who  works  upon  the 
noblest  design,  but  who  fills  his  design  best.  It  is,  in 
reality,  but  a  poor  excuse  for  a  slovenly  performer  tc 
say  '  magnis  tamen  eicidit  ausis  ;'  and  the  addition  of 
one  master-piece  of  any  kind  to  the  stock  of  art,  is  a 
greater  benefit,  than  that  of  a  thousand  abortive  and 
mis-shapen  wonders. 

If  Goldsmith  then  be  referred  to  the  class  of  de- 
scriptive poets,  including  the  description  of  moral  as 
well  as  of  physical  nature,  it  will  next  be  important 
to  inquire  by  what  means  he  has  attained  the  rank  of 
a  master  in  his  class.     Let  us  then  observe  how  ha 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH.  xxsvil 

has  selected,  combined,  and  contrasted  his  objects, 
with  what  truth  and  strength  of  colouring  he  has  ex- 
pressed them,  and  to  what  end  and  purpose. 

As  poetry  and  eloquence  do  not  describe  by  an 
exact  enumeration  of  every  circumstance,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  select  certain  particulars  which  may  excite  a 
sufficiently  distinct  image  of  the  thing  to  be  repre- 
sented. In  this  selection,  the  great  art  is  to  give  cha- 
racteristic marks,  whereby  the  object  may  at  once  be 
recognized,  without  being  obscured  in  a  mass  of 
common  properties,  which  belong  equally  to  many 
others.  Hence  the  great  superiority  of  particular 
images  to  general  ones  in  description  :  the  former 
identify,  while  the  latter  disguise.  Thus,  all  the 
hackneyed  representations  of  the  country  in  the  works 
of  ordinary  versifiers,  in  which  groves,  and  rills,  and 
flowery  meads  are  introduced  just  as  the  rhyme  and 
measure  require,  present  nothing  to  the  fancy  but 
an  indistinct  daub  of  colouring,  in  which  all  the  di- 
versity of  nature  is  lost  and  confounded.  To  catcb 
the  discriminating  features,  and  present  them  bold 
and  prominent,  by  few,  but  decisive  strokes,  is  the 
talent  of  a  master ;  and  it  will  not  be  easy  to  product 
a  superior  io  Goldsmith  in  this  respect.  The  mind 
is  never  in  doubt  as  to  the  meaning  of  his  figures,  nor 
does  it  languish  over  the  survey  of  trivial  and  unap- 
propriated circumstances.  All  is  alive — all  is  filled — 
yet  all  is  clear. 

The  proper  combination  of  objects  refers  to  the  im- 
pression they  are  calculated  to  make  on  the  mind  ; 
and  requires  that  they  should  harmonize,  and  recipro- 
cally enforce  and  sustain  each  other's  effect.  They 
should  unite  in  giving  one  leading  tone  to  the  imagi- 
nation; and  without  a  sameness  of  form,  they  should 
blend  in  an  uniformity  of  hue.  This,  too,  has  very  suc- 
cessfully been  attended  to  by  Goldsmith,  who  has 
not  only  sketched  his  single  figures  with  truth  and 
spirit,  but  has  combined  them  into  the  most  harmonious 
and  impressive  groups.  Nor  has  any  descriptive  poet 
better  understood  the  great  force  of  contrast,  ia  set- 


xxxviii  ON  THE  POETRY 

ting  off  his  scenes,  ana  preventing  any  approach  to 
wearisomeness  by  repetition  of  kindred  objects.  And, 
with  great  skill,  he  has  contrived  that  both  parts  of 
his  contrast  should  conspire  in  producing  one  intended 
moral  effect.  Of  all  these  excellencies,  examples 
will  be  pointed  out  as  we  take  a  cursory  view  of  the 
particular  pieces. 

In  addition  to  the  circumstances  already  noted,  the 
force  and  clearness  of  representation  depend  also  on 
the  diction.  It  has  already  been  observed,  that  Gold- 
smith's language  is  remarkable  for  its  general  sim- 
plicity, and  the  direct  and  proper  use  of  words.  It 
has  ornaments,  but  these  are  not  far-fetched.  The 
epithets  employed  are  usually  qualities  strictly  be- 
longing to  the  subject,  and  the  true  colouring  of  the 
simple  figure.  They  are  frequently  contrived  to  ex- 
press a  necessary  circumstance  in  the  description,  and 
thus  avoid  the  usual  imputation  of  being  expletive. 
Of  this  kind  are,  '  the  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful 
snake  ;'  '  indurated  heart ;'  '  shed  intolerable  day  ;' 
'  matted  woods ;'  '  ventrous  ploughshare  ;'  '  equinoctial. 
fervours.'  The  examples  are  not  few  of  that  indis- 
putable mark  of  true  poetic  language,  where  a  single 
word  conveys  an  image ;  as  in  these  instances  :  '  re- 
signation  gently  slopes  the  way  ;'  '  scoops  out  an  em- 
pire ;'  '  the  vessel  idly  waiting  Jlaps  with  every  gale  ;' 
'  to  winnow  fragrance  ;'  '  murmurs  Jluctuate  in  the 
gale.'  All  metaphor,  indeed,  does  this  in  some  de« 
gree  ;  but  where  the  accessory  idea  is  either  indistinct 
or  incongruous,  as  frequently  happens  when  it  is  in- 
troduced as  an  artifice  to  force  language  up  to  poetry, 
the  effect  is  only  a  gaudy  obscurity. 

The  end  and  purpose  to  which  description  is  directed 
is  what  distinguishes  a  well-planned  piece  from  a  loose 
effusion  ;  for  though  a  vivid  representation  of  striking 
objects  will  ever  afford  some  pleasure,  yet  if  aim  and 
design  be  wanting,  to  give  it  a  basis,  and  stamp  it 
with  the  dignity  of  meaning,  it  will  in  a  long  perfor- 
mance prove  flat  and  tiresome.  But  this  is  a  want 
which  cannot  be  charged  on  Goldsmith  ;  for  both 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH.  xxxix 

the  Traveller  and  the  Deserted  Village  have  a  great 
moral  in  view,  to  which  the  whole  of  the  description 
is  made  to  tend.  I  do  not  now  inquire  into  the  legi- 
timacy of  the  conclusions  he  has  drawn  from  his  pre- 
mises ;  it  is  enough  to  justify  his  plans,  that  such  a 
purpose  is  included  in  them. 

The  versification  of  Goldsmith  is  formed  on  the 
general  model  that  has  been  adopted  since  the  refine- 
ment of  English  poetry,  and  especially  since  the  time 
of  Pope.  To  manage  rhyme  couplets  so  as  to  pro- 
duce a  pleasing  effect  on  the  ear,  has  since  that  period 
been  so  common  an  attainment,  that  it  merits  no  par- 
ticular admiration.  Goldsmith  may,  I  think,  be  said 
to  have  come  up  to  the  usual  standard  of  proficiency 
in  this  respect,  without  having  much  surpassed  it.  A 
musical  ear,  and  a  familiarity  with  the  best  examples, 
have  enabled  him,  without  much  apparent  study,  al- 
most always  to  avoid  defect,  and  very  often  to  pro- 
duce excellence.  It  is  no  censure  of  this  poet  to  say 
that  his  versification  presses  less  on  the  attention  than 
his  matter.  In  fact,  he  has  none  of  those  peculiari- 
ties of  versifying,  whether  improvements  or  not,  that 
some  who  aim  at  distinction  in  this  point  have  adopted. 
He  generally  suspends  or  closes  the  sense  at  the  end 
of  the  line  or  of  the  couplet;  and  therefore  does  not 
often  give  examples  of  that  greater  compass  and  variety 
of  melody  which  is  obtained  by  longer  clauses,  or  by 
breaking  the  coincidences  of  the  cadence  of  sound  and 
meaning.  He  also  studiously  rejects  triplets  and 
alexandrines.  Hut  allowing  for  the  want  of  these 
sources  of  variety,  he  has  sufficiently  avoided  mono- 
tony ;  and  in  the  usual  flow  of  his  measure,  lie  has 
gratified  the  ear  with  as  much  change,  as  judiciously 
shifting  the  line-pauses  can  produce. 

Having  made  these  general    observations  0*1   the 
nature  of  Goldsmith's  poetry,   1  proceed  to  a  sui 
of  his  principal  pieees. 

The   Traveller,   or   Prospect  of  Society,   was     first 
sketched  out  by  the  author  during  a  tour  in 
great  part  of  which  he  performed  on  foot,  and  in  cir- 


xl  ON  THE  POETRY 

cumstances  which  afforded  him  the  fullest  means  of 
becoming  acquainted  with  the  most  numerous  clas9 
in  society,  peculiarly  termed  iha  people.  The  date  of 
the  first  edition  is  1765.  It  begins  in  the  gloomy 
mood  natural  to  genius  in  distress,  when  wandering 
alone, 

'  Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow.' 

After  an  affectionate  and  regretful  glance  to  the 
peaceful  seat  of  fraternal  kindness,  and  some  expres- 
sions of  self-pity,  the  Poet,  sits  down  amid  Alpine 
solitudes  to  spend  a  pen«ive  hour  in  meditating  on 
the  state  of  mankind.  He  finds  that  the  natives  of 
every  land  regard  their  own  with  preference  ;  whence 
he  is  led  to  this  proposition, — that  if  we  impartially 
compare  the  advantages  belonging  to  different  coun- 
tries, we  shall  conclude  that  an  equal  portion  of  good 
is  dealt  to  all  the  human  race,  lie  farther  supposes, 
that  every  nation,  having  in  view  one  peculiar  species 
of  happiness,  models  life  to  that  alone  ;  whence  this 
favourite  kind,  pushed  to  an  extreme,  becomes  a  source 
of  peculiar  evils.  To  exemplify  this  by  instances,  is 
the  business  of  the  subsequent  descriptive  part  of  the 
piece. 

Italy  is  the  first  country  that  comes  under  review- 
Its  general  landscape  is  painted  by  a  few  characteristic 
strokes,  and  the  felicity  of  its  climate  is  displayed  V, 
appropriate  imagery.  The  revival  of  arts  and  com- 
merce in  Italy,  and  their  subsequent  decline,  are  next 
touched  upon  ;  and  hence  is  derived  the  present  dis 
position  of  the  people — easily  pleased  with  splendid 
trifles,  the  wrecks  of  their  former  grandeur;  and  sunk 
into  an  enfeebled  moral  and  intellectual  character,  re- 
ducing them  to  the  level  of  children. 

From  these  he  turns  with  a  sort  of  disdain,  to  view 
a  nobler  race,  hardened  by  a  rigorous  climate,  and  by 
the  necessity  of  unabating  toil.  These  are  the  Swiss, 
who  find,  in  the  equality  of  their  condition,  and  their 
ignorance  of  other  modes  of  life,  a  source  of  content 
which  remedies  the  natural  evils  of  their  lot.    There 


()!•'  '    i.  GOLDSMITH.  x.i 

vannot  be  a  more  delightful  picture  than  the  poet  has 
Irawn  of  the  Swiss  peasant,  going  forth  to  his  morn- 
ing's labour,  and  returning  at  night  to  the  bosom  of 
domestic  happiness.  It  sufficiently  accounts  for  that 
Patriot  passion  for  which  they  have  ever  been  so  cele- 
brated, and  which  is  here  described  in  lines  that  reach 
the  heart,  ai,d  is  illustrated  by  a  beautiful  simile.  But 
this  state  of  life  has  also  its  disadvantages.  The  sources 
of  enjoyment  being  few,  a  vacant  listlessness  is  apt  tt 
creep  upon  the  breast ;  and  if  nature  urges  to  throw 
this  off  by  occasional  bursts  of  pleasure,  no  stimulus 
can  reach  the  purpose  but  gross  sensual  debauch. 
Their  morals,  too,  like  their  enjoyments,  are  of  a 
coarse  texture.  Some  sterner  virtues  hold  high  domi- 
nion in  their  breast,  but  all  the  gentler  and  more  re- 
fined qualities  of  the  heart,  which  soften  and  sweeten 
life,  are  exiled  to  milder  climates. 

To  the  more  genial  climate  of  France  the  traveller 
next  repairs,  and  in  a  very  pleasing  rural  picture  he 
introduces  himself  in  the  capacity  of  musician  to  a 
village  party  of  dancers  beside  the  murmuring  Loire. 
The  leading  feature  of  this  nation  he  represents  as  be- 
ie  love  of  praise  ;  which  passion,  while  it  inspires 
sentiments  of  honour,  and  a  desire  of  pleasing,  also 
affords  a  free  course  to  folly,  and  nourishes  vanity  and 
ostentation.  The  soul,  accustomed  to  depend  for  its 
happiness  on  foreign  applause,  shifts  its  principles 
with  the  change  of  fashion,  and  is  a  stranger  to  the 
value  of  self-approbation. 

The  strong  contrast  to  this  national  character  is 
sought  in  Holland  ;  a  most  graphical  description  of 
the  scenery  presented  by  that  singular  country  in- 
troduces the  moral  portrait  of  the  people.  From  the 
necessity  of  unceasing  labour,  induced  by  their  pecu- 
liar circumstances,  a  habit  of  industry  has  been  formed, 
of  which  the  natural  consequence  is  a  love  of  gain. 
The  jH>~e--ioii  of  exuberant  wealth  has  given  rise  to 
the  arts  and  conveniences  of  life  ;  but  at  the  same 
time  has  introduced  a  crafty,  cold,  and  mercenary 
temper,  which  sets  every  thing,  even  liberty  itself,  a 


xlii 


UN  Tfii3  POETKY 


a  price.  IIovv  different,  exclaims  tlie  poet,  from  then 
Belgian  ancestors!  how  different  from  the  present  race 
of  Britain  ! 

To  Britain,  then,  he  turns,  and  begins  with  a  slight 
sketch  of  the  country,  in  which,  he  says,  the  mildest 
charms  of  creation  are  combined, 

«  Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind.' 

He  then  draws  a  very  striking  picture  of  a  stern, 
thoughtful,  independent  freeman,  a  creature  of  reason, 
unfashioned  by  the  common  forms  of  life,  and  loose 
from  all  its  ties; — and  this  he  gives  as  the  representa- 
tive of  the  English  character.  A  society  formed  by 
such  unyielding  self-dependent  beings,  will  naturally 
be  a  scene  of  violent  political  contests,  and  ever  in  a 
ferment  with  party.  And  a  still  worse  fate  awaits  it ; 
for  the  ties  of  nature,  duty,  and  love,  failing,  the  fic- 
titious bonds  of  wealth  and  law  must  be  employed  to 
hold  together  such  a  reluctant  association  ;  whence 
the  time  may  come,  that  valour,  learning,  and  pa- 
triotism, may  all  lie  levelled  in  one  sink  of  avarice. 
These  are  the  ills  of  freedom  ;  but  the  Poet,  who 
would  only  repress  to  secure,  goes  on  to  deliver  his 
ideas  of  the  cause  of  such  mischiefs,  which  he  seems 
to  place  in  the  usurpations  of  aristocratical  upon  regai 
authority  ;  and  with  great  energy  he  expresses  his  in- 
dignation at  the  oppressions  the  poor  suffer  from  their 
petty  tyrants.  This  leads  him  to  a  kind  of  anticipa- 
tion of  the  subject  of  his  '  Deserted  Village,'  where, 
laying  aside  the  politician,  and  resuming  the  poet,  he 
describes,  by  a  few  highly  pathetic  touches,  the  depo- 
pulated fields,  the  ruined  village,  and  the  poor  forlorn 
inhabitants  driven  from  their  beloved  home,  and  ex- 
posed to  all  the  perils  of  the  trans-atl antic  wilderness. 
It  is  by  no  means  my  intention  to  enter  into  a  discus- 
sion of  Goi.DSMrrn's  political  opinions,  which  bear 
evident  marks  of  confused  notions  and  a  heated  imagi- 
nation. I  shall  confine  myself  to  a  remark  upon  the 
English  national  chnracter,  which  will  apply  to  him  in 
common  with  various  other  writers,  native  and  foreign 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH  xliii 

This  country  has  long-  been  in  the  possession  of 
more  unrestrained  freedom  of  thinking;  and  actino-  than 
any  other  perhaps  that  ever  existed  ;  a  consequence 
of  which  has  been,  that  all  those  peculiarities  of  cha- 
racter, which  in  other  nations  remain  concealed  in 
the  general  mass,  have  here  stood  forth  prominent  and 
conspicuous  ;  and  these  being  from  their  nature  cal- 
culated to  draw  attention,  have  by  superficial  obser- 
vers been  mistaken  for  the  general  character  of  the 
people.  This  has  been  particularly  the  case  with 
political  distinction.  From  the  publicity  of  all  pro- 
ceedings in  the  legislative  part  of  our  constitution,  and 
the  independence  with  which  many  act,  all  party  dif- 
ferences are  strongly  marked,  and  public  men  take 
their  side  with  openness  and  confidence.  Public  to- 
pics, too,  are  discussed  by  all  ranks  ;  and  whatever 
feeds  there  are  in  any  part  of  the  society  of  spirit  and 
activity,  have  full  opportunity  of  germinating.  But 
to  imagine  that  these  busy  and  high-spirited  characters 
compose  a  majority  of  the  community,  or  perhaps  a 
much  greater  proportion  than  in  other  countries,  is  a 
delusion.  This  nation,  as  a  body,  is,  like  all  others, 
characterized  by  circumstances  of  its  situation  ;  and  a 
rich  commercial  people,  long  trained  to  society,  in- 
habiting a  climate  where  many  things  are  necessary 
to  the  comfort  of  life,  and  under  a  government  abound- 
ing with  splendid  distinctions,  cannot  possibly  be  a 
knot  of  philosophers  and  patriots. 

To  return  from  this  digression.  Though  it  is  pro- 
bable that  few  of  Goldsmith's  readers  will  be  con- 
vinced, even  from  the  instances  he  has  himself  pro- 
duced, that  the  happiness  of  mankind  is  every  where 
equal  ;  yet  all  will  feel  the  force  of  the  truly  philoso- 
phical sentiment  which  concludes  the  piece, — that 
man's  chief  bliss  is  ever  seated  in  his  mind  ;  and  that 
but  a  small  part  of  real  felicity  consists  in  what  human 
governments  can  either  bestow  or  withhold. 

The  Deserted  Village,   first  printed  in  1769,  is  the 
companion-piece   of  the  Traveller,  formed,   like  it, 
upon  a  plan  which  unites  description  with  sentiment, 
.a  A 


itiv 


ON  THE  POETRY 


and  employs  both  in  inculcating  a  political  moral.  It 
is  a  view  of  the  prosperous  and  Turned  state  of  a  coun- 
try village,  with  reflections  on  the  causes  of  both. 
Such  it  may  be  defined  in  prose;  but  the  disposition, 
management,  and  colouring  of  the  piece,  are  all  cal- 
culated for  poetical  effect.  It  begins  with  a  delightful 
picture  of  Auburn  when  inhabited  by  a  happy  peo- 
ple. The  view  of  the  village  itself,-  and  the  rural 
occupations  and  pastimes  of  its  simple  natives,  is  in 
the  best  style  of  painting,  by  a  selection  of  charac- 
teristic circumstances.  It  is  immediately  contrasted 
by  a  similar  bold  sketch  of  its  ruined  and  desolated 
condition.  Then  succeeds  an  imaginary  state  of  Eng- 
land, in  a  kind  of  golden  age  of  equality  ;  with  its 
contrast  likewise.  The  apostrophe  that  follows,  the 
personal  complaint  of  the  poet,  and  the  portrait  of  a 
sage  in  retirement,  are  sweetly  sentimental  touches, 
that  break  the  continuity  of  description. 

lie  returns  to  Auburn,  and  having  premised  another 
masterly  sketch  of  its  two  states,  in  which  the  images 
are  chiefly  drawn  from  sounds,  he  proceeds  to  what 
may  be  called  the  interior  history  of  the  village.  In 
his  first  figure  he  has  tried  his  strength  with  Dryden. 
The  purish  frriest  of  that  great  poet,  improved  from 
Chaucer,  is  a  portrait  full  of  beauty,  but  drawn  in  a 
loose,  unequal  manner,  with  the  flowing  vein  of  di- 
gressive thought  and  imagery  that  stamps  his  style. 
The  subject  of  the  draught,  too,  is  considerably  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  Goldsmith,  having  more  of  the 
ascetic  and  mortified  cast,  in  conformity  to  the  saintly 
model  of  the  Roman  Catholic  priesthood.  The  pastor 
of  Auburn  is  more  human,  but  is  not  on  that  account 
a  less  venerable  and  interesting  figure;  though  I 
know  not  whether  all  will  be  pleased  with  his  fami- 
liarity with  vicious  characters,  which  goes  beyond  the 
purpose  of  mere  reformation.  The  descript.on  of  him 
in  his  professional  character  is  truly  admirable  ;  anlS 
the  similes  of  the  bird  instructing  his  young  to  fly, 
and  the  tall  cliff  rising  above  the  storm,  have  been 
universally  applauded.     The  first,   I  believe,  is  ori- 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH.  xlv 

ginal ; — the  second  is  not  so,  though  it  has  probably 
never  been  so  well  drawn  and  applied.  The  subse- 
quent sketches  of  the  village  schoolmaster  and  ale- 
house, are  close  imitations  of  nature  in  low  life,  like 
the  pictures  of  Teniers  and  Hogarth.  Yet  even  these 
humorous  scenes  slide  imperceptibly  into  sentiment 
and  pathos  ;  and  the  comparison  of  the  simple  plea- 
sures of  the  poor,  with  the  splendid  festivities  of  the 
opulent,  rises  to  the  highest  style  of  moral  poetry. 
Who  has  not  felt  the  force  of  that  reflection, 

•  The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  jcy  V 

The  writer  then  falls  into  a  strain  of  reasoning 
against  luxury  and  superfluous  wealth,  in  which  the 
sober  inquirer  will  find  much  serious  troth,  though 
mixed  with  poetical  exaggeration.  The  description  of 
the  contrasted  scenes  of  magnificence  and  misery  in  a 
great  metropolis,  closed  by  the  pathetic  figure  of  the 
forlorn  ruined  female,  is  not  to  be  surpassed. 

Were  not  the  subjects  of  Goldsmith's  description 
so  skilfully  varied,  the  uniformity  of  manner,  consisting 
in  an  enumeration  of  single  circumstances,  generally 
depicted  in  single  lines,  might  tire  ;  but  where  is  the 
reader  who  can  avoid  being  hurried  along  by  the  swift 
current  of  imagery,  when  to  such  a  passage  as  the  last 
succeeds  a  landscape  fraught  with  all  the  sublime 
terrors  of  the  torrid  zone; — and  then,  an  exquisitely 
tender  history-piece  of  the  departure  of  the  villagers  : 
concluded  with  a  group  (slightly  touched  indeed)  ot 
allegorical  personages?  A  noble  address  to  the  Genius 
of  Poetry,  in  which  is  compressed  the  moral  of  the 
whole,  gives  a  dignified  finishing  to  the  work. 

[f  we  compare  these  two  principal  poems  of  Gold- 
smith, we  may  say,  that  the  '  Traveller'  is  formed 
upon  a  more  regular  plan,  has  a  higher  purpose  in 
view,  more  abounds  in  thought,  and  in  the  axpressicn 
of  moral  and  philosophical  ideas ;  the  '  Deserted 
Village'  has  more  imagery,  more  variety,  more  pathos, 
more  of  the  peculiar  character  of  poetry.  In  the  firsi, 
the  moral  and  natural  descriptions  are  more  general 


xlvi  ON  DR.  GOLDSMITH'S  POETRY. 

and  elevated  ;  in  the  second,  they  are  more  particular 
and  interesting.  Both  are  truly  original  productions; 
but  the  '  Deserted  Village'  has  ^s  peculiarity,  and 
indeed  has  given  rise  to  imitations  which  may  stand  in 
some  parallel  with  it ;  while  the  '  Traveller'  remains 
an  unique . 

With  regard  to  Goldsmith's  other  poems,  a  few 
remarks  will  suffice.  The  '  Hermit,'  printed  in  the 
same  year  with  the  '  Traveller,'  has  been  a  very  popu- 
lar piece,  as  might  be  expected  of  a  tender  tale  prettily 
told,  k  is  called  a  '  Ballad,'  but  I  think  with  no 
correct  application  of  that  term,  which  properly  means 
a  story  related  in  language  either  naturally  or  affectedly 
rude  and  simple.  It  has  been  a  sort  of  fashion  to 
admire  these  productions ;  yet  in  the  really  ancient 
ballads,  for  one  stroke  of  beauty,  there  are  pages  of 
insipidity  and  vulgarity  ;  and  the  imitations  have  been 
pleasing  in  proportion  as  they  approached  more  finished 
compositions.  In  Goldsmith's  '  Hermit,'  the  lan- 
guage is  always  polished,  and  often  ornamented.  The 
best  things  in  it  are  some  neat  turns  of  moral  and 
pathetic  sentiment,  given  with  a  simple  conciseness 
that  fits  them  for  being  retained  in  the  memory.  As 
to  the  story,  h  has  little  fancy  or  contrivance  to  re- 
commend it. 

We  have  already  seen  that  Goldsmith  possessed 
humour  ;  and,  exclusively  of  his  comedies,  pieces  pro- 
fessedly humorous  form  a  part  of  his  poetical  remains. 
His  imitations  of  Swift  are  happy,  but  thev  are  invi- 
tations. His  tale  of  the  '  Double  transformation'  may 
rie  with  those  of  Prior.  His  own  natural  vein  of  easy 
humour  flows  freely  in  his  '  Haunch  of  Venison'  and 
'  Retaliation  ;'  the  first,  an  admirable  specimen  of  a 
very  ludicrous  story  made  out  of  a  common  incident 
by  the  help  of  conversation  and  character;  the  other, 
an  original  thought,  in  which  his  talent  at  drawing 
portraits,  with  a  mixture  of  the  serious  and  the  comic, 
is  most  happily  displayed. 


txr 


VERSES 

OH  THE 

DEATH  OF  Dr.  GOLDSMITH. 


EXTRACT    FROM    A    POEM 

WRITTEN  BY  COURTNEY  MELMOTH,  ESQ. 

ON  THE   DEATH    OF   EMINENT   ENGLISH   POETS. 

THE  TEARS  OF  GENIUS. 

The  village  bell  tolls  out  the  note  of  death, 
And  through  the  echoing  air  the  length'ning  sound, 
With  dreadful  pause,  reverberating  deep, 
Spreads  the  sad  tidings  o'er  fair  Auburn's  vale. 
There,  to  enjoy  the  scenes  her  baid  had  praised 
In  all  the  sweet  simplicity  of  song, 
Genius,  in  pilgrim  garb,  sequester'd  sat, 
And  herded  jocund  with  the  harmless  swains  : 
But  when  she  heard  the  fate-foreboding  knell, 
With  staitled  step,  precipitate  and  swift, 
And  look  pathetic,  full  of  dire  presage, 
The  church-way  walk,  beside  the  neighb'ring  green, 
Sorrowing  she  sought ;  and  there,  in  black  array, 
Borne  on  the  shoulders  of  the  swains  he  loved, 
She  saw  the  boast  of  Auburn  moved  along. 
Touch'd  at  the  view,  her  pensive  breast  she  struck, 
And  to  the  cypress,  which  incumbent  hangs, 
With  leaning  slope  and  branch  irregular, 
O'er  the  moss'd  pillars  of  the  sacred  fane, 
The  briar-bound  graves  shadowing  with  funeral  gloom, 
Forlorn  she  hied  ;  and  there  the  crowding  wo 
B 


a  COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 

(Sweil'd  by  the  parent)  press'd  on  bleeding  thought, 
Big  ran  the  drops  from  her  maternal  eye, 
Fast  broke  the  bosom-sorrow  from  her  heart, 
And  pale  Distress  sat  sickly  on  her  cheek, 
As  thus  her  plaintive  Elegy  began  : — 
'  And  must  my  children  all  expire  ? 
Shall  no;ie  be  left  to  strike  the  lyre  ? 
Courts  Death  alone  a  learned  prize? 
Falls  his  shafts  only  on  the  wise  ? 
Can  no  fit  marks  en  earth  be  found, 
From  useless  thousands  swarming  round? 
What  crowding  cyphers  cram  the  land. 
What  hosts  of  victims,  at  command ! 
Yet  shall  the  ingenious  drop  alone? 
Shall  Science  grace  tfi8  tyrant's  throne? 
1  hou  murd'rer  of  the  tuneful  train, 
I  chaige  thee  with  my  children  slain  ! 
Scarce  has  the  sun  thrice  urged  his  annual  tour, 
Since  half  rny  race  have  felt  thy  barbarous  powei ; 
Sore  hast  thou  thinn'd  each  pleasing  art, 
And  struck  a  muse  with  every  dart : 
Bard  after  bard  obey'd  thy  slaughtering  call, 
TiH  scarce  a  poet  lives  to  sing  a  brother's  fall. 
Then  let  a  widow'd  mother  pay 
The  tribute  of  a  parting  lay  ; 
Tearful,  inscribe  the  monumental  strain, 
And  speak  aloud  her  feelings  and  her  pain  ! 

'  And  first,  farewell  to  thee,  my  son,'  she  cried, 
'  Thou  pride  of  Auburn's  dale— sweet  bard,  farewell  1 
Long  for  thy  sake  the  peasant's  tear  shall  flow. 
And  many  a  virgin  bosom  heave  with  wo  ; 
For  thee  shall  sorrow  sadden  all  the  scene, 
And  every  pastime  perish  on  the  green  ; 
The  sturdy  farmer  shall  suspend  his  tale, 
The  woodman's  ballad  shall  no  more  reo-ale. 
No  more  shall  Mirth  each  rustic  sport  inspire. 
But  every  frolic,  every  feat,  shall  tire. 
No  more  the  evening  gambol  shall  delight, 
Nor  moonshine  revels  crewn  the  vacant  ni^ht, 


COMMAND  A  i'UUY   VERSES.  3 

But  groups  of  villagers  (each  joy  forgot) 
Shall  form  a  sad  assembly  round  the  cot. 
Sweet  bard,  farewell !— and  farewel},  Auburn's  bliss, 
The  bashful  lover,  and  the  yielded  kiss  : 
The  evening  warble  Philomela  made, 
The  echoing  forest,  and  t'ae  whispering  shade, 
.The  winding  brook,  the  bleat  of  brute  content, 
And  the  blithe  voice  that  "  whistled  as  it  went:" 
These  shall  no  longer  charm  the  ploughman's  care, 
But  sighs  shall  fill  the  pauses  of  despair. 

•  Goldsmith,  adieu  ;  the  "  book-learn'd  priest"  for 
thee 
Shall  now  in  vain  possess  his  festive  glee, 
The  oft-heard  jest  in  vain  he  shall  reveal, 
For  now,  alas  !  the  jest  he  cannot  feel. 
But  ruddy  damsels  o'er  thy  tomb  shall  be-nd, 
And  conscious  weep  for  their  and  virtue's  friend ; 
The  milkmaid  shall  reject  the  shepherd's  song, 
And  cease  to  carol  as  she  toils  along : 
All  Auburn  shall  bewail  the  fatal  day, 
When  from  her  fields  their  pride  was  snatch'd  away , 
And  even  the  matron  of  the  cressy  lake, 
In  piteous  plight,  her  palsied  head  shall  shake, 
Whiie  all  adown  the  furrows  of  her  face 
Slow  shall  the  lingering  tears  each  other  trace. 

And,  oh,  my  child  !  severer  woes  remain 
To  all  the  houseless  and  unshelter'd  train  ! 
Thy  fate  shall  sadden  many  an  humble  guest, 
And  heap  fresh  anguish  on  the  beggar's  breast ; 
For  dear  wert  thou  to  all  the  sons  of  pain, 
To  all  that  wander,  sorrow,  or  complain  : 
Dear  to  the  learned,  to  the  simple  dear, 
For  daily  blessings  mark'd  thy  virtuous  year  ; 
The  rich  received  a  moral  from  thy  head, 
And  from  thy  heart  the  stranger  found  a  bed : 
Distress  came  always  smiling  from  thy  door; 
For  God  had  made  thee  agent  to  the  poor, 
Had  form'd  thy  feelings  on  the  noblest  plan, 
To  grace  at  once  the  poet  and  the  man.' 


£= 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  MONODY. 

Dark  as  the  night,  which  now  in  dunnest  robe 

Ascends  her  zenith  o'er  the  silent  globe, 

Sad  Melancholy  wakes,  a  while  to  tread, 

With  solemn  step,  the  mansions  of  the  dead : 

Led  by  her  hand,  o'er  this  yet  recent  shrine 

I  sorrowing  bend  ;  and  here  essay  to  twine 

The  tributary  wreath  of  laureat  bloom, 

With  artless  hands,  to  deck  a  poet's  tomb, — 

The   tomb  where    Goldsmith  sleeps.     Fond   hopes, 

adieu  ! 
No  more  your  airy  dreams  shall  mock  my  view  ; 
Here  will  I  learn  ambition  to  control, 
And  each  aspiring  passion  of  the  soul  : 
E'en  now,  methinks,  his  well-known  voice  I  hear, 
When  late  he  meditated  flight  from  care, 
When,  as  imagination  fondly  hied 
To  scenes  of  sweet  retirement,  thus  he  cried  .— 

'  Ye  splendid  fabrics,  palaces,  and  towers, 
Where  dissipation  leads  the  giddy  hours, 
Where  pomp,  disease,  and  knavery  reside, 
And  folly  bends  the  knee  to  wealthy  pride; 
Where  luxury's  purveyors  learn  to  rise, 
And  worth,  to  want  a  prey,  unfriended  dies ; 
Where  warbling  eunuchs  glitter  in  brocade, 
And  hapless  poets  toil  for  scanty  bread  : 
Farewell !  to  other  scenes  I  turn  my  eyes, 
Embosom'd  in  the  vale  where  Auburn  lies — 
Deserted  Auburn,  those  now  ruin'd  glades, 
Forlorn,  yet  ever  dear  and  honour'd  shades  : 
There,  though  the  hamlet  boasts  no  smiling  train, 
Nor  sportful  pastime  circling  on  the  plain, 
No  needy  villains  prowl  around  for  prey, 
No  slanderers,  no  sycophants  betray  j 
No  gaudy  foplings  scornfully  deride 
The  swain,  whose  humble  pipe  is  all  his  pride,— 
There  will  I  fly  to  seek  that  soft  repose, 
Which  solitude  contemplative  bestows. 


COMMENIfATORY  VERSES.  < 

Yet,  oh,  fond  hope  !  perchance  there  still  remains 
One  lingering  friend  behind,  to  bless  the  plains, 
Some  hermit  of  the  dale,  enshrined  in  ease, 
Long  lost  companion  of  my  youthful  days  ; 
With  whose  sweet  converse  in  his  social  bower, 
I  oft  may  chide  away  some  vacant  hour ; 
To  whose  pure  sympathy  I  may  impart 
Each  latent  grief  that  labours  at  my  heart, 
Whate'er  1  felt,  and  what  I  saw,  relate, 
The  shoals  of  luxury,  the  wrecks  of  slate, — 
Those  busy  scenes,  where  science  wakes  in  vain, 
In  which  I  shared,  ah!  ne'er  to  share  again. 
But  whence  that  pang-!  does  nature  now  rebel? 
Why  falters  out  my  tongue  the  word  farewell  ? 
Ye  friends !  who  long  have  witness'd  to  my  toil, 
And  seen  me  ploughing  in  a  thankless  soil, 
Whose  partial  tenderness  hush'd  every  pain, 
Whose  approbation  made  my  bosom  vain, — 
'I'is  you  to  whom  my  soul  divided  hies 
With  fond  regret,  and  half  unwilling  flies; 
Sighs  forth  her  parting  wishes  to  the  wind, 
And  lingering  leaves  her  better  half  behind. 
Can  1  forget  the  intercourse  I  shared, 
What  friendship  cherish'd,  and  what  zeal  endear'd? 
Alas  !  remembrance  still  must  turn  to  you, 
And,  to  my  latest  hour,  protract  the  long  adieu. 
Amid  the  woodlands,  wheresoe'er  I  rove, 
The  plain,  or  secret  covert  of  the  grove, 
Imagination  shall  supply  her  store 
Of  painful  bliss,  and  what  she  can  restore; 
Shall  strew  each  lonely  path  with  flow'rets  gay, 
And  wide  as  is  her  boundless  empire  stray ; 
On  eagle  pinions  traverse  earth  and  skies, 
And  bid  the  lo-t  and  distant  objects  rise. 
Here,  where  encircled  o'er  the  sloping  land 
Woods  rise  on  woods,  shall  Aristotle  stand  ; 
Lyceum  round  the  godlike  man  rejoice, 
And  bow  with  reverence  to  wisdom's  voice. 
There,  spreading  oaks  shall  arch  the  vaulted  dome, 
The  champion,  there,  of  \iberty  and  Rome, 


6  COMMENDATORY   VERSES. 

In  Attic  eloquence  shall  thunder  laws, 

And  uncorrupted  senates  shout  applause. 

Not  more  ecstatic  visions  rapt  the  soul 

Of  Numa,  when  to  midnight  grots  he  stole, 

And  learnt  his  lore,  from  virtue's  mouth  refined, 

To  fetter  vice,  and  harmonize  mankind. 

Now  stretch'd  at  ease  beside  some  fav'nte  stream, 

Of  beauty  and  enchantment  will  I  dream  ; 

Elysium,  seats  of  arts,  and  laurels  won, 

The  Graces  trrree,  and  Japhet's*  fabled  son; 

Whilst  Angelo  shall  wave  the  mystic  rod, 

And  see  a  new  creation  wait  his  nod  : 

Prescribe  his  bounds  to  Time's  remorseless  power, 

And  to  my  arms  my  absent  friends  restore ; 

Place  me  amidst  the  group,  each  well-known  face, 

The  sons  of  science,  lords  of  human  race ; 

And  as  oblivion  sinks  at  his  command, 

Nature  shall  rise  more  finish'd  from  his  hand. 

Thus  some  magician,  fraught  with  potent  skill, 

Transforms  and  moulds  each  varied  mass  at  will ; 

Calls  animated  forms  of  wondrous  birth. 

Cadmean  offspring,  from  the  teeming  earth, 

Unceres  the  ponderous  tombs,  the  realms  of  night, 

And  calls  their  cold  inhabitants  to  light; 

Or,  as  he  traverses  a  dreary  scene, 

Bids  every  sweet  of  nature  there  convene, 

Huge  mountains  skirted  round  with  wavy  woods, 

The  shrub-deck'd  lawns,  and  silver-sprinkled  floods, 

Whilst  flow'rets  spring  around  the  smiling  land, 

And  follow  on  the  traces  of  his  wand. 

'  Such  prospects,  lovely  Auburn  !  then,  be  thine, 
And  what  thou  canst  of  bliss  impart  be  mine ; 
Amid  th\  humble  shades,  in  tranquil  ease, 
Grant  me  to  pass  the  remnant  of  my  days. 
Unfetter'd  from  the  toil  of  wretched  gain, 
My  raptured  muse  shall  pour  her  noblest  strain, 
Within  her  native  bowers  the  notes  prolong, 
And,  grateful,  meditate  her  latest  song. 
1  has,  as  adovvn  the  slope  of  life  I  bend, 
\nd  inove,  resign'd,  to  meet  my  latter  end 

•  Prometheui. 


COMMEN»ATORY  VERSES.  J 

Each  worldly  wish,  each  worldly  care  repress'd, 

A  self-approving  heart  alone  possess'd, 

Content,  to  bounteous  Heaven  I'll  leave  the  rest.' 

Thus  spoke  the  13ard  :  but  not  one  friendly  power 
With  nod  assentive  crown'd  the  parting  hour; 
No  eastern  meteor  glared  beneath  the  sky, 
No  dextral  omen  :   Nature  heaved  a  sigh' 
Prophetic  of  the  dire  impending  blow, 
The  presage  of  her  loss,  and  Britain's  wo. 
Already  portion'd,  unrelenting  fate 
Had  made  a  pause  upon  the  number'd  date"; 
Behind  stood  Death,  loo  horrible  for  sight, 
In  darkness  clad,  expectant,  pruned  for  flight ; 
Pleased  at  the  word,  the  shapeless  monster  sped, 
On  eager  message  to  the  humble  shed, 
Where,  wrapt  by  soft  poetic  visions'round, 
Sweet  slumbering,  Fancy's  darling  son  he  found. 
At  his  approach  the  silken  pinion'd  train, 
Affrighted,  mount  aloft,  and  quit  the  brain, 
Which  late  they  fann'd.  Now  other  scenes  than  dale 
Of  woody  pride,  succeed,  or  flowery  vales  : 
As  when  a  sudden  tempest  veils  the  sky, 
Before  serene,  and  streaming  lightnings  fly, 
The  prospect  shifts,  and  pitchy  volumes  roll, 
Along  the  drear  expanse,  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
Terrific  horrors  all  the  void  invest, 
Whilst  the  arch  spectre  issires  forth  confest. 
The  Bard  beholds  him  beckon  to  the  tomb 
Of  yawning  night,  eternity's  dread  womb  ; 
In  vain  attempts  to  fly,  th'  impassive  air 
Retards  his  steps,  and  yields  him  to  despair ; 
He  feels  a  gripe  that  thrills  through  every  vein, 
And  panting  struggles  in  the  fatal  chain. 
Here  paused  the  fell  destroyer  to  survey 
The  pride,  the  boasf.  of  man,  his  destined  prey; 
Prepared  to  strike,  he  poised  aloft  the  dart, 
And  plunged  tin  st<  el  in  Virtue's  bleeding  heart; 
Abhorrent,  back  the  springs  of  life  rebound, 
And  leat-'c  on  Nature's  face  ;i  grisly  wound, 
A  wound  enrol  I'd  among  Britannia's  woes, 
That  ages  yet  to  follow  cannot  i  lose. 


8  COMMENDATORY   VERSES. 

O  Goldsmith  !  how  shall  Sorrow  noiv  essay 
To  murmur  out  her  slow  incondite  lay  ? 
In  what  sad  accents  mourn  the  luckless  hour, 
That  yielded  thee  to  unrelenting  power  ; 
Thee,  the  proud  boast  of  all  the  tuneful  train 
That  sweep  the  lyre,  or  swell  the  polish'd  strain! 
Murh-honour'd  15ard  !  if  my  untutor'd  verse 
Could  pay  a  tribute  worthy  of  thy  hearse, 
With  fearless  hands  I'd  build  the  fane  of  praise, 
And  boldly  strew  the  never-fading  bays. 
But,  ah  I  with  thee  my  guardian  genius  fled, 
And  pillow'd  in  thy  tomb  his  silent  head  : 
Pain'd  Memory  alone  behind  remains, 
And  pensive  stalks  the  solitary  plains, 
Rich  in  her  sorrows  ;  honours  without  art 
She  pays  in  tears  redundant  from  the  heart. 
And  say,  what  boots  it  o'er  thy  hallow'd  dust 
To  heap  the  graven  pile,  or  laurell'd  bust ; 
Since  by  thy  hands  already  raised  on  high, 
We  see  a  fabric  tow'iing  to  the  sky  ; 
Where,  hand  in  hand  with  Time,  the  sacred  lore 
Shall  travel  on,  till  Nature  is  no  morel 


LINES  BY  W.  WOTTY. 

Adieu,  sweet  Bard  !  to  each  fine  feeling  true, 
Thy  virtues  many,  and  thy  foibles  few, — 
Those  form'd  to  charm  e'en  vicious  minds,  and  these 
Wit!)  harmless  mini)  the  social  soul  to  please. 
Another's  wo  thy  heart  could  always  melt : 
None  gave  more  free,  for  none  more  deeply  felt. 
Sweet  Bard,  adieu  !  thy  own  harmonious  lays 
Have  sculptured  out  thy  monument,  of  praise: 
Yes,  these  survive  to  time's  remotest  day  ; 
While  drops  the  bust,  and  boastful  tombs  decay. 
Reader,  if  number'd  in  the  Muse's  train, 
Go,  tune  the  lyre,  and  imitate  his  strain; 
Cut,  if  no  poet  thou,  reverse  the  plan, 
Depart  in  peace,  and  imitate  the  man 


* 


THE    TRAVELLER; 

OR, 

A  PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETY. 


DEDICATION. 

TO   THE    REV.    HENRY    GOLDSMITH. 

Dear  Sir,, — I  am  sensible  that  the  friendship  be- 
tween us  can  acquire  no  new  force  from  the  ceremo- 
nies of  a  dedication  ;  and  perhaps  it  demands  an  excuse 
thus  to  prefix  your  name  to  rny  attempts,  which  you 
decline  giving  with  your  own.  But  as  a  part  of  this 
poem  was  formerly  written  to  you  from  Switzerland,  the 
whole  can  now,  with  propriety,  be  only  inscribed  to 
you.  It  will  also  throw  a  light  upon  many  parts  of 
it,  when  the  reader  understands,  that  it  is  addressed  to 
a  man  who,  despising  fame  and  fortune,  has  retired 
early  to  happiness  and  obscurity,  with  an  income  of 
forty  pounds  a-year. 

I  now  perceive,  my  dear  brother,  the  wisdom  of  your 
humble  choice.  You  have  entered  upon  a  sacred 
office,  where  the  harvest  is  great,  and  the  labourers  are 
but  few  ;  while  you  have  left  the  field  of  ambition, 
where  the  labourers  are  many,  and  the  harvest  not 
worth  carrying  away.  But  of  all  kinds  of  ambition — 
what  from  the  refinement  of  the  times,  from  different 
systems  of  criticism,  and  from  the  divisions  of  party — 
that  which  pursues  poetical  fame  is  the  wildest. 

Poetry  makes  a  principal  amusement  among  un- 
polished nations  ;  but  in  a  country  verging  to  the  ex- 
tremes of  refinement,  painting  and  music  come  in  for 
a  share.  As  these  offer  the  feeble  mind  a  less  labori- 
ous entertainment,  they  at  first  rival  poetry,  and  at 
length  supplant  her  ;  they  engross  all  that  favour 
B  2 


10  THE  TRAVELLER. 

once  shewn  to  her,  and  though  but  younger  sisters, 
seize  upon  the  elder's  birthright. 

Yet,  however  this  art  may  be  neglected  by  the  power* 
ful.  it  is  still  iu  greater  danger  from  the  mistaken  efforh 
of  the  learned  to  improve  it.  What  criticisms  have 
we  not  heard  of  late  in  favour  of  blank  verse  and  Pin- 
daric odes,  choruses,  anapests  and  iambics,  alliterative 
care  and  happy  negligence  !  Every  absurdity  has  now 
a  champion  to  defend  it ;  and  as  he  is  generally  much 
in  the  wrong,  so  he  has  always  much  to  say  ;  for  error 
is  ever  talkative. 

But  there  is  an  enemy  to  this  art  still  more  danger- 
ous,— I  mean  party.  Party  entirely  distorts  the  judg- 
ment, and  destroys  the  taste.  When  the  mind  is  once 
infected  with  this  disease,  it  can  only  find  pleasure  in 
what  contributes  to  increase  the  distemper.  Like  the 
tiger,  that  seldom  desists  from  pursuing  man  after 
having  once  preyed  upon  human  flesh,  the  reader,  who 
has  once  gratified  his  appetite  with  calumny,  makes 
ever  after  the  most  agreeable  feast  upon  murdered 
reputation.  Such  readers  generally  admire  some  half- 
witted thing,  who  wants  to  be  thought  a  bold  man, 
having  lost  the  character  of  a  wise  one.  Him  they 
dignify  with  the  name  of  poet :  his  tawdry  lampoons 
are  called  satires ;  his  turbulence  is  said  to  be  force 
and  his  frenzy  fire. 

What  reception  a  poem  may  find,  which  has  neither 
abuse,  party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support  it,  1  cannot 
tell,  nor  am  I  solicitous  to  know.  My  aims  are  right. 
Without  espousing  the  cause  of  any  party,  I  have  at- 
tempted to  moderate  the  rage  of  all.  I  have  endea- 
voured to  shew,  that  there  may  be  equal  happiness  in 
states  that  are  differently  governed  from  our  own  ;  that 
every  state  has  a  particular  principle  of  happiness,  and 
that  this  principle  in  each  may  be  carried  to  a  mis- 
chievous excess.  There  are  few  can  judge  better  than 
yourself  how  far  these  positions  are  illustrated  in  this 
poem.     I  am,  dear  Sir,  your  most  affectionate  brothei, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


tl 


TtHE  TRAVELLER. 


Remote,  unfriender?,  melancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld,  or  wandering  Po ; 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  chuts  the  door; 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies: 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravell'd  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  frien-i, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend! 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire! 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair! 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown  <r, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale  ; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good  ! 

But  me,  not  destined  such  deiights  to  share. 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent,  and  car*  ; 
Impell'd,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view, 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies : 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone. 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 


12  THE  TRAVELLER. 

E'en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend  ; 
And,  placed  on  high  above  the  storm's  career, 
Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear: 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 
When  thus  Creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride  repine  1 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain? 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man  j 
And  wiser  he,  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
Ye  glittering  towns,  with  wealth  and  splendour 

crown'd  ; 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusiou  round  • 
Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale  ; 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale  ; 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine, 
Creation's  heir,  the  world — the  world  is  mine  ! 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er. 
Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 
Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still : 
Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 
Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man 

supplies; 
Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 
To  see  the  sum  of  human  bliss  so  small : 
And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consign'd, 
Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  reg» 
May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 
But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  1 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own  ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease : 


THE  TRAVELLER.  IS 

The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  Line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
Ana  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind ; 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 
To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even. 

Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 
Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labour's  earnest  call : 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idia's  cliffs  as  A i no's  shelvy  side  ; 
And  though  the  rocky  crested  summits  frown, 
These  rocks  by  custom  turn  to  beds  of  down. 
From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent,— 
Wealth,  commerce,  honour,  liberty,  content. 
Yet  these  each  other's  power  so  strong  contest, 

That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest. 

Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  contentment  fails 

And  honour  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 

Hence  every  state,  to  one  loved  blessing  prone 

Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone. 

Each  to  the  favourite  happiness  attends, 

And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends; 

Till  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 

This  favourite  good  begets  peculiar 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  cTbser  eyes, 

And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies  ; 

Here,  for  a  while,  my  proper  cares  resign'd, 

Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind  ; 

Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  raudom  cast, 

That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blast. 
Far  to  the  right,  where  Apennine  ascend?, 

Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends; 

Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 

Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride  ■ 

'i  b 


14  THE   TRAVELLUK. 

While  oft  gome  temple's  mouldering  tops  between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  Nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest : 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  are  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground  ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 
Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year  j 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die  ; 
These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil ; 
While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand, 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  this  nation  knows. 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign  : 
Though  poor,  luxurious  ;  though  submissive,  vain; 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling  ;  zealous,  yet  untrue  ! 
And  e'en  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  : 
For  wealth  was  theirs  ;  not  far  removed  the  date, 
When  Commerce  proudly  flourish'd  through  the  state 
At  her  command  the  palace  learn'd  to  rise, 
Again  the  long-fall'n  column  sought  the  skies  ; 
The  canvass  glow'd  beyond  e'en  nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teem'd  with  human  form  : 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  displ ay 'd  her  sail ; 
While  nought  remain'd,  of  all  that  riches  gave, 
But  towns  unmann'd,  and  lords  without  a  slave  : 
And  late  the  nation  found,  with  fruitless  skill, 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride  ■ 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fall'n  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 


THE   TRAVELLER.  15 

Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array'd, 
The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade; 
Processions  form'd  for  piety  and  love, 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 
By  sports'  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguil'd; 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child  : 
Each  nobler  aim,  repress'd  by  long  control, 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 
While  low  delights  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind  : 
As  in  those  doom*  where  Caisars  once  bore  sway, 
Defaced  by  time,  and  tottering  in  decay, 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed  ; 
And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile, 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage,  with  a  smile. 

My  soul,  turn  from  them  !  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display, 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread, 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread  : 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword; 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  an  ay, 
But  wintei  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May  ; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast, 
But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  irtyegt 

Yet  still,  even  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 
Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feast  though  small, 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all  ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head 
To  shame  the""frreanness  of  his  humble  shed; 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal 
To  make  him  loathe"1Tis  vegetable  meal  ; 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 
Each  wish  contracting,  tits  him  to  trie  soil. 
Cheerful,  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols. as  he  goes; 
With  patient  anyle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 
/Or  drives  his  vent'rous  ploughshare  to  the  steep  J] 


i6  THE   TRAVELLER. 

Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped, 
He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed  ; 
Smiles  by  a  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks  that  brighten  at  the  blaze. 
While  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board ; 
And  Jiajjy  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 
With  manj-  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 
"And  e'en  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion  rise, 
Enjiaaee  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  CQnfpjrgjs, 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms; 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast, 
So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  bgrren.  states  assign'd  . 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wisTies  all  confined  : 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, — 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few  ; 
For  every  want  that  stimyiates  the  breast, 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest.  .—-''' 
Hence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science  flies, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies  ; 
Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 
To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy  ; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame, 
Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame. 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 
Nor  quench'd  by  want,  nor  fann'd  by  strong  desire  ; 
Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a-year, 
In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expir§» 
^SrBut  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow, — 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low; 


THE   TRAVELLER.  17 

For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  .son 

Unalter'd,  unimproved  the  manners  run  ; 

And  love's  and  friendship's  finely  pointed  dart 

Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 

Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 

May  sit  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 

But  all  the  gentler  morals, — such  as  play       [way, — 

Through  life's  more  cultured  walks,  and  charm  the 

These,  far  dispersed,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 

To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn  ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleased  with  thyself,  wnom  all  tha  world  can  please, 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe  be.-i  le  the  murmuring  Loire  ! 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And,  freshen'd  from  the  wave,  the  zephyr  flew  ; 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch  falt'ring  still, 
But  mock'd  all  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dancer's  skill ; 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages  :  dames  of  ancient  clays 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze; 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill'd  in  gestic  lore, 
lias  frisk'd  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 

So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display; 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away  : 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here  : 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land  ; 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are.  taught  an  avarice  of  praise  : 
They  please,  are  pleased  ;  they  give  to  get  esteem ; 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  tii  it  their  bliss  supplies. 

It  gives  their  follies  ;.!.- ■■  room  to  rise  ; 


■ 
-  ' 


18  THE   TRAVELLER. 

For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought. 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought : 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  Ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart; 
Here  Vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace  ; 
Here  beggar  Pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a-year : 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws, 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom'd  in  the  deep  where  Holland  liesV 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 
And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride.  -^ 

Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow, 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore ; 
While  the  pent  Ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile; 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossom'd  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reia;n. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 
And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 
Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 
With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 
Are  here  display'd.    Their  much-loved  wealth  imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts; 
But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear; 
Even  liberty  itself  is  barter'd  here  : 
At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies. 
The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys. 


THE  TRAVELLER.  19 

A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 
Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves, 
And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 
Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens  !  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old! 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold, 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow; 
Bow  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now ! 

Fired  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  brighter  streams  than  famed  Hydaspes  glide. 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray, 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray  ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combined, 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind  ! 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  Reason  holds  her  state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great, 
I*  ride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  6ee  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by; 
Intent  on  lii^h  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashion'd,  fresh  from  nature's  hand, 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 
True  to  imagined  right  above  control, — 
Wlide  e'en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 
And  loams  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

1  bine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictured  here 
1  dine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear! 

1  oo  blest  indeed  were  such  without  alloy ; 

Hut,  fosttr'd  e'en  by  Freedom,  ills  annoy: 

T  hat  independence  Britons  prize  too  high,. 

K  eeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie; 

T  he  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone, . 

All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  tmtnown ; 

Here,  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 

Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell'd; 

Ferments  arise,  imprison'd  factions  roar, 

I>  eprest  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore; 

Till,  overwrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motion  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 


20  THE  TRAVELLER. 

Nor  this  the  worst.     As  Nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honour  fail  to  sway, 
Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown : 
Till  time  may  come,  when  stript  of  all  her  charms, 
The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms, 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toil'd,  and  poets  wrote  for  fame 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonour'd  die^,/ 

Yet  think  not,  thus  when  Freedom's  ills  I  state, 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings,  or  court  the  great : 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  tlue  low  desire  ! 
And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage,  and  tyrant's  angry  steel  j 
Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 
By  proud  contempt,  or  favour's  fostering  sun — 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure! 
I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure: 
Fcr  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 
That  those  that  think  must  govern  those  that  toil  j 
And  all  that  Freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach. 
Is  but  to  lay  proportion'd  loads  on  each. 
Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion^  grow, 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

Oh,  then,  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires, 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 
Except  when  fast  approaching  danger  warms : 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own  ; 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free ; 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law ; 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 
Pillaged  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home, — y 


THE  TRAVELLER.  21 

Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation,  start, 
Tear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart ; 
Till,  half  a  patriot,,  half  a  coward  grown, 
I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour, 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power; 
And  thus,  polluting  honour  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled  shore. 
Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore  ! 
Seen  ail  her  triumphs  but  destruction  hasie, 
Like  flaring  tapers  brightening  as  they  waste? 
Seen  Opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 
Lead  stern  Depopulation  in  her  train, 
And  over  fields,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
In  barren,  solitary  pomp  repose? 
Have  we  not  seen,  at  PteasurgVlordly  call, 
The  smiling,  long-frequented  village  fall'.' 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay 'd, 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 
Forced  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 
To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main, 
Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around. 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound  ! 

E'en  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim  strays 
Through  tangled  forests,  and  through  dangerous  ways, 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim, 
And  the  brown  Indian  maiks  with  murderous  aim  ; 
These,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 
The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  wo, 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go^. 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine, 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathize  with  mine. 

\  :iin,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind : 
Why  have  1  stray 'd  from  pleasure  and  repose, 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows? 
In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  king*,  or  tyrant  laws  restraiu, 


22  THE  TRAVELLER. 

How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 

That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure  J 

Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign'd, 

Our  own  fdicity  we  make  or  find  : 

With  secret  course  which  no  loud  storms  anno}. 

Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 

The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 

Lukes  iron  crown,  and  Damien's  bed  of  sfcsel, 

To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 

Leave  reason   faith   and  conscience,  all  our  own. 


THE 


DESERTED    VILLAGE. 


TO  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS. 

Dear  Sir, — I  can  have  no  expectations,  in  an  ad- 
dress of  this  kind,  either  to  add  to  your  reputation,  01 
to  establi>h  my  own.  You  can  gain  nothing  from 
my  admiration,  a3  I  am  ignorant  of  that  art  in  which 
you  are  said  to  excel ;  and  I  may  lose  much  by  the 
severity  of  your  judgment,  as  few  have  a  juster  taste 
in  poetry  than  you.  Setting  interest,  therefore,  aside, 
to  which  I  never  paid  much  attention,  I  must  be 
indulged  at  present  in  following  my  afl'ections.  The 
only  dedication  I  ever  made  was  to  my  brother,  be- 
cause I  loved  him  better  than  most  other  men.  He 
rs  since  dead.  Permit  me  to  inscribe  this  Poem 
to  you. 

How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versifica- 
tion and  mere  mechanical  parts  of  this  attempt,  I 
do  not  pretend  to  inquire  :  but  I  know  you  will  ob- 
ject (and  indeed  several  of  our  best  and  wisest 
friends  concur  in  the  opinion),  that  the  depopulation 
it  deplores  is  no  where  to  be  seen,  and  the  disorders 
it  laments  are  only  to  be  found  in  the  poet's  own  ima- 
gination. To,  this  I  can  scarcely  make  any  other 
answer,  than  that  I  sincerely  believe  what  I  have 
written  ;  that  I  have  taken  all  possible  pains,  in  my 
country  excursions,  for  these  four  or  five  years  past, 
to  be  certain  of  what  I  allege;  and  that  all  my  views 
and  inquiries  have  led  me  to  believe  those  miseries 
reai,  which  I  here  attempt  to  display.  But  this  is 
not  the  place  to  enter  into  an  inquiry  whether  the 


24  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

country  be  depopulating  or  not :  the  discussion  would 
take  up  much  room,  and  I  should  prove  myself,  at 
best,  an  indifferent  politician,  to  tire  the  reader  with 
a  long  preface,  when  I  want  his  unfatigued  attention 
to  a  long  poem. 

In  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  I 
inveigh  against  the  increase  of  our  luxuries  ;  and  here 
also  I  expect  the  shoot  of  modern  politicians  against 
me.  For  twenty  or  thirty  years  past,  it  has  been  the 
fashion  to  consider  luxury  as  one  of  the  greatest  na- 
tional advantages  ;  and  all  the  wisdom  of  antiquity 
in  that  particular  as  erroneous.  Still,  however;.  I 
must  remain  a  professed  ancient  on  that  head,  and 
continue  to  think  those  luxuries  prejudicial  to  states 
by  which  so  many  vices  are  introduced,  and  so  many 
kingdoms  have  been  undone.  Indeed,  so  much  has 
been  poured  out  of  late  on  the  other  side  of  the  ques- 
tion, that  merely  for  the  sake  of  novelty  and  variety, 
one  would  sometimes  wish  to  be  in  the  right. 
I  am,  dear  sir, 
Your  sincere  friend,  and  ardent  admirer, 

U i.i vta  Goldsmith. 


HE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.* 


"\ 


\ 


Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  eheer'd  the  labouring  swain.       \ 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay'd: 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 

How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene  ! 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighbouring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  ! 

How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day, 

W  lien  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree  ; 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey 'd ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round  ; 

And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired  ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 

Ji y  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place; 

»  The  locality  of  tills  poem  is  supposed  to  be  Lisioy,  near  Ballvnia- 
han,  where  the  poet's  brother  Henry  had  his  livintr.  As  usual  in 
such   cases,  the  place    afterwards    became  the  fashionable  resort  o 

^>oetlcal  plhzrinis,  and  paid  the  customary  penalty  of  furnishing  relic* 
or  the  curious.  The  hawthorn  bush  has  been  converted  into  suurV- 
boxea,  and  now  adorns  the  cabinets  of  poetical  virtuosi. 

c 


X 


£6  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong-  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove: 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village!  sports  like 

these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please  ; 
These  round  thy  bovvers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 
These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn! 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen 
And  Desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  grassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries  • 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay: 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man  : 
For  him  light  Labour  spread  her  wholesome  store. 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more  ; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 
But  times  are  alter'd  :  trade's  unfeeling  frain 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  27 

And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 

And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 

Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 

Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room, 

Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene. 

Lived  in  each  look,  and  brighten'd  all  the  green,— 

These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 

And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elajsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs— and  God  has  given  my  share— 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting,  by  repose  : 
I  still  had  hopes— for  pride  attends  us  still — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  shew  my  bvok-iearn'd  skill, 
Around  mv  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw; 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return,  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreat  from  cares,  that  never  must  be  mine  I 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 
W  ho  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  ! 
For  him  do  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
l'o  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 


28  THE  DESER1KD  VILLAGE. 

But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  hitter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending'  virtue's  friend j. 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unpereeived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  ; 
There,  as  I  past  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young ; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind, — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  "of  life  is  fled  : 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  witli  forty  pounds  a-year  ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wish'd  to  change,  his  place  j 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  2'J 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain : 
The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away, 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  shew'd  how  fields  were 

won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to  glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  wo  : 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side  ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch 'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt,  for  all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
lie  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scofi>rcmain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man,^ 
With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
Cen  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile ; 

c 
.  2  C 


30 


THE  DESERTED  VIl<x,AGE. 


His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  express'd ; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distress'd; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew  : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laugh'd,  with  counterfeited  glee. 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd: 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write  and  cipher  too  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  titles  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran — that  he  could  gauge : 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 
For  e'en  though  vanquish'd  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thund'ring  sound, 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 
But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspired, 
Where  graybeard  mirth,  and  smiling  toil,  retired, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  8i 

Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  profound, 

And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 

Tmagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 

The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place  : 

The  white-wash'd  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 

The  varnish 'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door  ; 

The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 

A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day  ; 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day, 

With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gays 

While  broken  tea  cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 

Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row^^*" 

Vain  transitory  splendours  !   Could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  1 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart: 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail  ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  pond'rous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear  . 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  9oul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfine^d  : 
lint  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array'd, — 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 


32  THE  DESERTED  ViLLAGE. 

And,  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy  ? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore ; 
Hoards,  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish,  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gams :  this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss  :  the  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied  ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth, 
Has  robb'd  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their  growth  ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies  : — 
While  thus  the  land,  adorn'd  for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  its  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nfcr  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past — for  charms  are  frail— 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress  : 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd ; 
In  Nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd : 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 
While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band ; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave. 


JjU_ 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


33 


Where,  then,  ah!  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  1 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  liigits  stray'd,. 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 
To  see  tea  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind  ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extoxted  from  his  fellow-creatures'  wo. 
Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  his  sickly  trade  ; 
Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorggous  train  ; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts^ — Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies: 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innoeence  distrest . 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn: 
Now  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 
And,  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 
She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  1 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread  ! 

Ah,  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  iutrudes  between, 
C  2 


Z-i  THE  DKSERTED  VILLAGE. 

Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 

Where  wild  Altama*  murmurs  to  their  wo. 

Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm 'd  before, 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  ; 

Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 

And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 

Tbose  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sin"-, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling  ; 

Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crown'd, 

Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  j 

Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 

The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 

Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 

And  savage  men,  more  murd'rous  still  than  they ; 

While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 

Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 

Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 

The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 

The  breezy  convert  of  the  warbling  grove, 

That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloom  'd  that  partino-  day 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away ;  ° 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  • 
And,  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep' 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return 'd  to  weep' ! 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  wo : 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave; 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelie/in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms : 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 

Un*»ed  !££"*  (°r  AltMUha)  's  a  -iver  iH  t!lc  P™™*  oT  Georgia, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  35 

And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  kixury  !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee  ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own  : 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  wo; 
Till,  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsouni 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
1  see  the  rural  Yiitues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downwaid  they  mo\e,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  sJiore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderness,  are  there, 
And  Piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
Tc  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame  ; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried. 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  prido  ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  wo, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so , 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell  ;  and  oh  !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Tomo's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 


SG  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  th'  inclement  clime ; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain  ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 
leach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest. 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay. 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  away ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  locks  resist  the.  billows  and  the  sky. 


V 


37 

THE    HERMIT; 

A  BALLAD. 


The  following  letter,  addressed  to  the  printer  of  the  St.  James's  Chro 
nicle,  appeared  in  that  paper  in  June,  1707. 

Sir, — As  there  is  nothing  I  dislike  so  much  as 
newspaper  controversy,  particularly  upon  trifles,  permit 
me  to  be  as  concise  as  possible  in  informing  a  cor- 
respondent of  yours,  that  I  recommended  lilainville's 
Travels,  because  1  thought  the  book  was  a  good  one, 
and  I  think  so  still.  1  said  I  was  told  by  the  book- 
seller that  it  was  then  first  published ;  but  in  that,  it 
seems,  I  was  misinformed,  and  my  reading  was  not 
extensive  enough  to  set  me  right. 

Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of 
having  taken  a  ballad  I  published  some  time  ago, 
from  one*  by  the  ingenious  Mr.  Percy.  I  do  not 
think  there  is  any  great  resemblance  between  the  two 
pieces  in  question.  If  there  be  any,  his  ballad  is 
taken  from  mine.  I  read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some  years 
ago ;  and  he  (as  we  both  considered  these  things  as 
trifles  at  best)  told  me  with  his  usual  good  humour, 
the  next  time  I  saw  him,  that  he  had  taken  my  plan 
to  form  the  fragments  of  Shakspeare  into  a  ballad  of 
his  own.  He  then  read  me  his  little  Cento,  if  I  may 
so  call  it,  and  I  highly  approved  it.  Such  petty 
anecdotes  as  these  are  scarcely  worth  printing ;  and, 
were  it  not  for  the  busy  disposition  of  some  of  your 
correspondents,  the  public  should  never  have  known 
that  he  owes  me  the  hint  of  his  ballad,  or  that  I  am 
obliged  to  his  friendship  and  learning  for  communica- 
tions of  a  much  more  important  nature. — I  am,  Sir, 
yours,  &c.  Ouvek  Goldsmith. 

•  The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray.     Rdiquei  of  Ancient  Poetry,  wL  L 
book  2,  No.  17. 


38 


THE    HERMIT. 


'Turn,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale. 
And  guide  my  lonely  way, 

To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

'For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow, 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  length'ning  as  I  go.' 

'Forbear,  my  son,'  the  Hermit  cries, 
'  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

'  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

'Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate'er  my  cell  bestows  ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

'  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 

To  slaughter  I  condemn  ; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them  : 

'  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring  ; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 

And  water  from  the  sprino-. 

'Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  foregoj 
All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong  : 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  loutr.' 


T11K  HERMIT. 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell  : 
The  modest,  stranger  lowly  bends. 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay, 
A  refuge  to  the  neighb'ring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Required  a  master's  care  ; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  Hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 

And  cheer'd  his  pensive  guest : 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gaily  prcssM  and  smiled  ; 

And,  skiil'd  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries, 
The  cricket  chirrups  on  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  chaim  impart 

To  sooth  the  stranger's  wo  ; 
For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 
With  answering  care  oppress'd  : 

And,  '  Whence,  unhappy  youth,'  lie  cried, 
'The  sorrows  of  thy  breast'! 

*  From  better  habitations  spurn'd, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  1 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn'd. 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 


40  THE  HERMIT. 

'  Alas!  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling,  and  decay  ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

'And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep  ; 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep! 

'And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair  one's  jest ; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

'For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,'  he  said  ; 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 

Surprised  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view  ; 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confess'd 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

And,  'Ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude— 
A  wretch  forlorn,'  she  cried ; 

*  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 
Where  Heaven  and  you  reside. 

'  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray, 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

'  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he  : 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine, 

He  had  but  only  me. 


THE  HERMIT.  41 

*  To  win  rue  from  his  tender  arras, 

Unnumber'd  suitors  came, 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 

And  felt,  or  feign'd,  a  flame. 
'Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 

With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 
Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd. 

But  never  talk'd  of  love. 
'In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  ; 
Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 

But  these  were  all  to  me. 
•And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale, 

He  caroll'd  lays  of  love, 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale. 

And  music  to  the  grove.* 
'  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 
Could  nought  of  purity  display 

To  emulate  his  mind. 
•The  dew,  the  blofisfflu  oii  'ins  Uw; 

With  chartiis  inconstant  shine: 
Their  charms  were  his,  but,  wo  to  me, 

Their  constancy  was  mine. 

•  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain; 
And  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  heart, 

I  triumph'd  in  his  pain  : 
•Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 
'But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

Ami  well  my  life  ^liall  pay  ; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

»  This  itaiua  was  presi  rved  bj  Richard  Archdale,  Esq.  a  member  of 

the  Irish  Parliament,  in  uh il  was  given  by  Goldsmith,  aud  wan 

Cret  inserted  af*er  the  author's  death. 


42  THE  HERMIT. 

•And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die  ; 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I.' 

•  Forbid  it,  Heaven !'  the  Hermit  cried, 
And  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast: 

The  wondering  fair  one  turn'd  to  chide- 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  press'd ! 

'Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

'Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign  : 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life — my  all  that's  mine 

'No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 
We'll  live  and  love  so  true, 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  hear* 
Shall  Araic  'ijv  Edwin  s  too. 


43 


THE   HAUNCH   OF   VENISON.* 

A    POETICAL    EPISTLE    TO    LOUD    CLARE. 

Thanks,  my  lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  or  fatter 
Ne'er  ranged  in  a  forest,  or  smoked  in  a  platter. 
The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 
The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy  ; 
Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce  help 

regretting 
To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating : 
I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chamber  to  place  it  in  view, 
To  be  shewn  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu ; 
As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so  so, 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show ; 
But  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  pride  in, 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fried  in. 
But  hold — let  me  pause — don't  1  hear  you  pronounce, 
This  tale  of  the  bacon's  a  damnable  bounce  ? 
(\  ell,  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may  try, 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to  fly. 

But,  my  lord,  it's  no  bounce  :  I  protest,  in  my  turn, 
it's  a  truth,  and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr.  Burn.t 
To  go  on  with  my  tale  :  as  I  gazed  on  the  haunch, 
I  thought  of  a  friend  that  was  trusty  and  stanch, 
So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undrest, 
To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  best. 
Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose — 
Twasa  neck  and  a  breast-that  might  rival  Monroe's. 
But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again, 
With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and  the 

when. 
There's  II— d,  and  C— y,  and  II— rth,  and  II— ff, 
I  think,  they  love  venison — I  know  they  love  beef; 

•  The  description  of  tli*1  dinner  party  in  t!is  poem  i*  Imitated  from 
Bolieau'a  fourth  Satire.  Bolleau  himself  t""k  the  hint  from  Horace, 
Lib.  il.  Sat.  B.  which  lias  also  ucimi  Imitated  uj  Regoler,  SaL  10. 

t  LonlClari"„  nephew. 


44  THE  HAl'NC.I  OF  VENISON'. 

There's  my  countryman,  Higgins — oh,  let  him  alone 
For  mating  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone  : 
But,  hang  it  \  tc  poets  who  seldom  can  eat 
Your  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat ; 
Such  dainties  to  them  their  health  it  might  hurt, 
It's  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  wanting  a  shirt. 

While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  centred, 
An  acquaintance — a  friend,   as  he  call'd  himself — 

enter'd  ; 
An  under-bred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he, 
And  he  smiled  as  he  look'd  at  the  venison  and  me,— 
'  What  have  we  got  here  1 — Why,  this  is  good  eating! 
Your  own,  I  suppose: — or  is  it  in  waiting?' 
'  Why,  whose  should  it  bet'  cried  I,  with  a  flounce, 
'  I  get  these  tilings  often' — but  that  was  a  bounce : 
'  Some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the  nation. 
Are  pleased  to  be  kind — but  I  hate  ostentation.' 
■  If  that  be  the  case,  then,'  cried  he,  very  gay, 
'  I'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way : 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me  ; 
No  words — I  insist  on't — precisely  at  three  ; 
We'll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke,  all  the  wits  will  be 

there  : 
My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I'd  ask  my  lord  Clare. 
And,  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner, 
We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  a  dinner. 
What  say  you — a  pasty?  it  shall,  and  it  must, 
And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 
Here,  porter — this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-end  : 
No  stirring,  I  beg — my  dear  friend — my  dear  friend  !' 
Thus,  snatching  his  hat,  he  brush 'd  off  like  the  wind, 
And  the  porter  and  eatables  follow'd  behind. 

'Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 
And  '  nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself;'* 
Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman  hasty, 
Yet  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty, 
Were  things  that  I  never  disliked  in  my  life, 
Though  clogg'd  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his  wife. 

»  See  the  letters  that  passed  between   his  Royal  Highness  Henry 
Duke  of  Cumberland,  and  Lady  Grosvenor.    12mb.  1763. 


THE  HAUNCK  OV  VENISON. 


45 


So  next  day,  in  due  splendour  to  make  my  approach, 
I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney-coach. 

When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to  dine 
(A  ehair-lumber'd  closet,  just  twelve  feet  by  nine), 
My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite  dumb 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Uurke  would  not  come  ; 
'  For  I  knew  it,'  he  cried,  '  both  eternally  fail, 
The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t'other  with  1'hrale  :* 
But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the  party 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew  : 
They're  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors  like  you  : 
The  one  writes  the  Snarler,  the  other  the  Scourge  ;  > 
Some  thinks  he  writes  Cinna— he  owns  to  Panurge. 
While  thus  he  described  them,  by  trade  and  by  name, 
They  enter'd,  and  dinner  was  served  as  they  came. 

At  the  top,  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen  ; 
At  the  bottom,  was  tripe  in  a  swinging  tureen  ; 
At  the  sides,  there  was  spinage,  and  pudding  made  hot ; 
In  the  middle,  a  place  where  the  pasty— was  not. 
Now,  my  lord,  as  for  tripe,  it's  my  utter  aversion, 
And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persian  ; 
So  there  I  sat  stuck  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 
While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round: 

But  what  vex'd  me  most  was  that  d 'd  Scottish 

rogue, 
With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles,  and  his 

brogue ; 
And,  'Madam,'  quoth  he,  'may  this  hit  be  my  poison, 
A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on  : 
Pray,  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though,  may  I  be  curst, 
But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to  burst.' 
*  The  tripe  !'  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  chocolate  cheek, 
'  I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  a  week  : 
I  like  these  here  dinners,  so  pretty  and  small  ;  > 

But  your  friend  there,  the  Doctor,  eats  nothing  at  all. 
'  O  ho  !'  quoth  my  friend,  '  he'll  come  onin  a  trice. 
He's  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's  nice  : 

•  An  eminent  London  brewer,  M.P.  for  Hip  borough  of  Southwark, 
bt  whose  taule  Dr.  Juhuson  wivs  a  frequent  guest.  . 


4G  THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON. 

There's  a  pasty.' — '  A  pasty  !'  repeated  the  Jev?, 
'  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too.' 
'  What  the  deil  mon,  a  pasty  !'  re-echo'd  the  Scot, 
•Though  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  that.* 
'  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,'  the  lady  cried  out; 
'  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,'  was  echo'd  about. 
While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delay'd,   • 
With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  enter'd  the  maid  : 
A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright, 
Waked  Priam,  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night. 
But  we  quickly  found  out — for  who  could  mistake 

her"! — 
That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from  the  baker : 
And  so  it  fell  out ;  for  that  negligent  sloven 
Had  shutout  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 
Sad  Philomel  thus — but  let  similes  drop — 
And  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop. 

To  be  plain,  my  good  lord,  it's  but  labour  misplaced, 
To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste  : 
You've  got  an  odd  something — a  kind  of  discerning, 
A  relish — a  taste — sicken'd  over  by  learning ; 
At  least  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known, 
That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your  own  . 
So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss, 
You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of  this. 


4t 


RETALIATION. 


Dr.  Goldsmith  and  some  of  his  friends  occasionally  dined  at  the  St 
James's  Coffeehouse.  One  day,  it  was  proposed  to  write  epitaphs OE 
him.  His  country,  dialect,  and  person,  furnished  subjects  of  witticism. 
He  was  called  on  for  Retaliation,  and,  at  their  next  meeting,  pro- 
duced the  following  poem. 

Of  old,  when  Scarron  his  companions  invited, 
Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united ; 
If  our  landlord*  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish, 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself,  and  he  brings  the  best 

dish  : 
Our  Deant  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains; 
Our  Burke}  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of  brains  ; 
Our  \Vill§  shall  be  wild-fowl,  of  excellent  flavour, 
And  Dick||  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the  savour; 
Our  Cumberland's^  sweetbiead  its  place  shall  obtain, 
And  Douglas**  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain ; 
Our  Garrick'stt  a  salad,  for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltncss  agree: 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am, 
That  RidgeM  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds§fj  is  lamb; 
That  Hickey  s||||  a  capon,  and,  by  the  same  rule, 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 

„  *,TI,P  master  of  the  St.  James's  Coffeehouse,  where  the  Doctor,  and 
the  triends  he  has  characterized  in  this  poem,  occasionally  dined. 

t  Doctor  Barnard,  Dean  of  Derry,  in  Ireland,  afterwards  Bishop  of 
Killaloe.  * 

J  The  Right  Hon.  Edmund  Burke. 

§  Mr.  William  Burke,  formerly  secretary  to  General  Conway,  and 
member  for  Bedwln. 

Ii  Mr.  Richard  Burke,  collector  of  Granada. 

11  Mr.  Richard  t  nmli.i  kind,  author  of  The  West  Indian,  The  Jen; 
and  other  dramatic  works. 

*•  Dr.  Douglas,  Canon  of  Windsor,  and  afterwards  Bishop  of  Salis- 
bury,was i  himself  a  native  of  Scotland,  and  obtained  considerable  re- 
putation by  In,  detection  of  the  forgeries  of  his  countrymen,  Lauder 
and  Bower, 

it  David  Garrlck,  Esq. 

Jf  Counsellor  John  Ridge,  a  gentleman  belonging  to  the  Irish  bar. 

<tf  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 
An  eii.iui  nt  attorney. 


48  RETALIATION. 

At  a  dinner  so  various — at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  I'm  able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 

Here  lies  the  good  Dean,  reunited  to  earth, 
Who  mix'd  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with 

mirth  : 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt — 
At  least,  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  'em  out; 
Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  be  denied  'em, 
That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em. 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much  ; 
Who,  born  .'or  the  universe,  narrow'd  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind: 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his 

throat, 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend*  to  lend  him  a  vote ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of 

dining  :t 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit ; 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 
For  a  patriot,  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge,  disobedient ; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
Ln  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemploy'd  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a  mint, 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that  was 

in't : 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forced  him  along, 
His  conduct  s.till  right,  with  his  argument  wrong ; 

*  Mr.  T.  Townshend,  member  for  Whitchurch,  afterwards  Lor! 
Sydney. 

"t  Mr.  Burke's  speeches  in  Parliament,  though  distinguished  by  all 
the  force  of  reasoning-  and  eloquence  of  their  highly-gifted  author, 
were  not  always  listened  to  with  patience  by  lus  brother  members, 
who  notunfrequently  took  the  opportunity  nf  r.tiriiiir  to  dinner  when 
he  rose  to  sneak.  To  this  circumstance,  which  procured  for  the  ora 
tor  the  iobiiqxut  of  the  Dinner  Veil,  allusion  is  liui'i  made. 


RETALIATION.  4D 

Still  aiming  at  honour,  yet  fearing  to  roam, 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home  . 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits  1  alas  !   he  had  none  ; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were  his 
own. 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh  at ; 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet ! 
What  spirits  were  his  !  what  wit  and  what  whim! 
Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb  !* 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball ! 
Now  teasing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all ! 
In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 
That  we  wish'd  him  full  len  times  a-day  at  Old  Nick 
But  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 
As  often  we  wish'd  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts  ; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are 
His^rallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  Comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine  ; 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  lie  has  dizcn'd  her  out, 
Or  rather  like  Tragedy  giving  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feeliugs,  that  Folly  grows  proud  ; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their  own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught, 
Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault? 
Say,  was  if,  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf. 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself! 

Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax, 
The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks  . 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  divines, 
Come,  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant 
reclines  : 

•  Mr.  Richard  Burke  having  slightly  fractured  an  arm  and  a  le»  at 
different  time*,  the  Doctor  has  rallied  him  on  these  accidents,  ana 
kind  of  retributive  justice,  for  breaking  jests  upon  other  people, 

D 


fiO  RETALIATION. 

When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  fear'd  for  your  safety,  I  fear'd  for  my  own ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 
Our  Dodds*  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenrickst  shall 

lecture ; 
MacphersonJ  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style  ; 
Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  compile  : 
New  Lauders§  and  J3owers||  the  Tweed  shall  cross 

over, 
No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover  j 
Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark, 
And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  the 

dark. 
Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man  ; 
As  an  actor,  confess'd  without  rival  to  shine, 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line  : 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread, 
And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting; 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a-day : 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick: 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them 

back. 

•  1  tie  Rev.  Dr.  Dodd,  who  was  executed  for  forgery. 

t  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  read  lectures  at  the  Devil  Tavern,  under  the 
title  of 'The  School  of  Shakspeare.'  He  was  a  well-known  writer,  of 
prodigious  versaUIity,  and  some  talent.  Dr.  Johnson  observed  of  him, 
'He  is  one  of  the  niany  who  have  made  themselves  puUic,  without 
niakimr  themselves  known.1 

X  James  Macpherson,  Esq.  who  from  the  mere  force  of  his  style, 
wrote  down  the  first  poet  of  all  antiquity. 

§  William  Lauder,  who,  by  interpolating  certain  passages  from  the 
Adamus  Exul  of  Grotius,  with  translations  from  Paradise  Lost,  en- 
deavoured to  fix  on  Milton  a  charge  of  plagiarism  from  the  modern 
Latin  poets.  Dr.  Douglas  detected  and  exposed  this  imposture,  and 
extorted  from  the  author  a  confession  and  apology. 

i|  Archibald  Bower,  a  Scottish  Jesuit,  and  author  of  a  History  of  the 
Popes  from  St  Peter  to  Lambertini.  Dr.  Dou-rlas  convicted'  Bower 
rf  gross  imposture,  and  tolal'y  destroyed  the  credit  of  his  history. 


-jssLi 


RETALIATION.  61 

Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow'd  what  came, 
And  the  pufFof  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame  ; 
Till  his  relish,  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 
Who  pepper'd  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,*  and  Woodfallst  so  grave, 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you 

gave ! 
How   did  Grub-street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you 

raised, 
VVhile  he  was  be-Roscius'd,  and  you  were  be-praised  ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 
To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies  : 
Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 
Old  Shakspeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 
Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt  pleasant 

creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good-nature  ; 
He  cherish 'd  his  friend,  and  he  relish'd  a  bumper; 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser-! 
I  answer,  No,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser. 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat"? 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that. 
Pei haps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  1  Ah,  no  ! 
Then  what  was  his  failing?  come  tell  it,  and  burn  ye 
He  was,  could  he  help  it  ?  a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind  ; 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand, 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland: 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 

•  Mr.  Hugh  Kelly,  oris'nally  a  staymaker,  afterwards  a  newspaper 
editor  ami  dramatist,  and  latterly  a  barrister. 
t  Mr,  William  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Morning  Chroniclt. 


52 


RETALIATION. 


To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steer.ng, 

\\  hen  they  judged  without  skill,  he  was  still  hard  of 

hearing  : 
When  they  talk'd  of  their  Raphaels,  Corregios,  and 

stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,*  and  only  took  snuff. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

After  the  fourth  edition  of  this  Poem  was  printed,  the  publisher  re 
ceived  the  followinj  epitaph  on  Mr.  Whitefoord,t  Iron  a  friend  01 
the  late  Dr.  Goldsmith. 

Here  Whitefoord  reclines,  and,  deny  it  who  can, 
Though  he  merrily  lived,  he  is  now  a  grave  man  -t 
Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun ! 
Who  relish'd  a  joke,  and  rejoiced  in  a  pun  ; 
Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere; 
A  stranger  to  flattery,  a  stranger  to  fear ; 
Who  scatter'd  around  wit  and  humour  at  will ; 
Whose  daily  bon  mots  half  a  column  might  fill : 
A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice  free  ; 
A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he. 

"What  pity,  alas  !  that  so  liberal  a  mind 
Should  so  long  be  to  newspaper  essays  confined ! 
Who  perhaps  to  the  summit  of  science  could  soar, 
Yet  content  if  *  the  table  he  set  in  a  roar :' 
Whose  talents  to  fill  any  station  were  fit, 
Yet  happy  if  Woodfall§  confess'd  him  a  wit. 

Ye  newspaper  witlings,  ye  pert  scribbling  folks! 
Who  copied  his  squibs,  and  re-echo'd  his  jokes ; 
Ye  tame  imitators,  ye  servile  herd,  come, 
Still  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb 
To  deck  it,  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 
And  copious  libations  bestow  on  his  shrine  ; 


*  Sir  Joshna  Reynolds  was  so  deaf  as  to  be  under  the  necessity  of 
usinsr  an  ear-trumpet  in  company. 

t  Mr.  Caleb  Whitefoord,  author  of  many  humorous  essays. 

t  Mr.  Whitefoord  was  so  notorious  a  punster,  that'  Dr.  Coldsniith 
used  to  say  it  was  impossible  to  keep  him  company,  without  being 
inferred  with  the  Itch  of  punning-. 

§  Mr.  II.  S.  Woodl'all,  printer  of  the  Public  Advertiser. 


THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION.  53 

Then  strew  all  around  it  (you  can  do  no  less) 
Cross  Readings,  Ship  News,  and  Mistakes  of  the  Press.* 

Merry  Whitefoord,  farewell !  for  thy  sake  I  admit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humour,  I  had  almost  said  wit. 
This  debt  to  thy  memory  I  cannot  refuse, 
'Thou  best-humour'd  man  with  the  worst-humour'd 
Muse.' 


THE 

DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION; 

A    TALE. 

Secluded  from  domestic  strife, 

Jack  JJook-vvorm  led  a  college  life ; 

A  fellowship  at  twenty-five 

Made  him  the  happiest  man  alive ; 

He  drank  his  glass,  and  crack'd  his  joke, 

And  freshmen  wonder'd  as  he  spoke. 
Such  pleasures,  unalloy'd  with  care, 

Could  any  accident  impair? 

Could  Cupid  s  shaft  at  length  transfix 

Our  swain,  arrived  at  thirty-six  ? 

Oh,  had  the  archer  ne'er  come  down 
To  ravage  in  a  country  town  ! 

Or  Flavia  been  content  to  stop 

At  triumphs  in  a  Fleet  Street  shop ! 

Oh,  had  her  eyes  forgot  to  blaze  ! 

Or  Jack  had  wanted  eyes  to  gaze, ! 

Oh! — but  let  exclamation  cease, 

Her  presence  banish'd  all  his  peace; 

So  with  decorum  all  things  carried, 

Miss  frown'd,  and  blush'd,  and  then  was— married. 

Need  we  expose  to  vulgar  sight 
The  raptures  of  the  bridal  night  > 
Need  we  intrude  on  hallow'd  ground, 
Or  draw  the  curtains  closed  around  1 

»  Mr.  Whitefoord  bad  frequently  Indulged  the  town  with  huuioroiu 
plccei  under  those  ailet  In  the  I'ublic  A&vtrtUtr 


64  THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION. 

Let  it  suffice  that  each  had  charms  : 
He  clasp'd  a  goddess  in  his  arms; 
And  though  she  felt  his  usage  rough, 
Yet  in  a  man  'twas  well  enough. 

The  honey-moon  like  lightning  flew, 
The  second  brought  its  transports  too ; 
A  third,  a  fourth,  were  not  amiss, 
The  fifth  was  friendship  mix'd  with  bliss : 
But,  when  a  twelvemonth  pass'd  away, 
Jack  found  his  goddess  made  of  clay  ; 
Found  half  the  charms  that  deck'd  her  face 
Arose  from  powder,  shreds,  or  lace ; 
But  still  the  worst  remain'd  behind, — 
That  very  face  had  robb'd  her  mind. 

Skill'din  no  other  arts  was  she, 
But  dressing,  patching,  repartee  ; 
And,  just  as  humour  rose  or  fell, 
By  turns  a  slattern  or  a  belle, 
'lis  true  she  dress'd  with  modern  grace, 
Half  naked,  at  a  ball  or  race  ; 
But  when  at  home,  at  board  or  bed, 
Five  greasy  nightcaps  wrapp'd  her  head. 
Could  so  much  beauty  condescend 
To  be  a  dull,  domestic  friend  1 
Could  any  curtain-lectures  bring 
To  decency  so  fine  a  thing  ! 
In  short,  by  night,  'twas  fits  or  fretting ; 
By  day,  'twas  gadding  or  coquetting. 
Fond  to  be  seen,  she  kept  a  bevy 
Of  powder'd  coxcombs  at  her  levee  ; 
The  squire  and  captain  took  their  stations, 
And  twenty  other  near  relations  : 
Jack  suck'd  his  pipe,  and  often  broke 
A  sigh  in  suffocating  smoke  ; 
While  all  their  hours  were  pass'd  between 
Insulting  repartee  and  spleen. 

Thus,  as  her  faults  each  day  were  known. 
He  thinks  her  features  coarser  grown  ; 
He  fancies  every  vice  she  shews, 
Or  thins  her  lip,  or  points  her  nose : 


L: 


THE  DOL'RLE  TRANSFORMATION.  55 

Whenever  rage  or  envy  rise, 

How  wide  her  mouth,  how  wild  her  eyes  ! 

He  knows  not  how,  but  so  it  is, 

Her  face  is  grown  a  knowing  phiz  ; 

And,  though  her  fops  are  wondrous  civil, 

He  thinks  her  ugly  as  the  devil. 

Now,  to  perplex  the  ravell'd  noose, 
As  each  a  different  way  pursues, 
While  sullen  or  loquacious  strife 
Promised  to  hold  them  on  for  life, 
That  dire  disease,  whose  ruthless  power 
Withers  the  beauty's  transient  flower,— 
Lo  !  the  small-pox,  with  horrid  glare, 
Levell'd  its  terrors  at  the  fair  ; 
And,  rifling  every  youthful  grace, 
Left  but  the  remnant  of  a  face. 

The  glass,  grown  hateful  to  her  sight, 
Reflected  now  a  perfect  fright : 
Each  former  art  she  vainly  tries 
To  bring  back  lustre  to  her  eyes ; 
In  vain  she  tries  her  paste  and  creams 
To  smooth  her  skin,  or  hide  its  seams ; 
Her  country  beaux  and  city  cousins, 
Lovers  no  more,  flew  off  by  dozens  ; 
The  squire  himself  was  seen  to  yield, 
And  e'en  the  captain  quit  the  field. 

Poor  madam,  now  condemn'd  to  hack 
The  rest  of  life  with  anxious  Jack, 
Perceiving  others  fairly  flown, 
Attempted  pleasing  him  alone. 
Jack  soon  was  dazzled  to  behold 
Her  present  face  surpass  the  old: 
With  modesty  her  cheeks  are  dyed, 
Humility  displaces  pride  ; 
For  tawdry  finery  is  seen 
A  person  ever  neatly  clean  ; 
No  more  presuming  on  her  sway, 
She  learns  good-nature  every  day  : 
Serenely  gay,  and  strict  in  duty, 
Jack  finds  his  wife  a  perfect  beauty. 


56 

.     THE    GIFT* 

TO    IRIS,   IN    BOW   STREET,    COVENT   GARDEN. 

Say,  cruel  Iris,  pretty  rake, 

Dear  mercenary  beauty, 
What  annual  offering  shall  I  make 

Expressive  of  my  duty  1 

My  heart,  a  victim  to  thine  eyes, 

Should  I  at  once  deliver, 
Say,  would  the  angry  fair  one  prize 

The  gift,  who  slights  the  giver  1 

A  bill,  a  jewel,  watch,  or  toy, 

My  rivals  give — and  let  'em : 
If  gems,  or  gold,  impart  a  joy, 

I'll  give  them — when  I  get  'em. 

I'll  give — but  not  the  full-blown  rose, 

Or  rose-bud  more  in  fashion  ; 
Such  short-lived  offerings  but  disclose 

A  transitory  passion — 

111  give  thee  something  yet  unpaid, 

Not  less  sincere  than  civil, — 
I'll  give  thee — ah  !  too  charming  maid  J— 

I'll  give  thee — to  the  Devil ! 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song, 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 

Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

♦  Imitated  from  Greco-irt,  a  wiltj  French  poet* 


THE  LOGICIANS  REFUTED.  C7 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes  : 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets 

The  wond'ring  neighbours  ran, 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye  ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad. 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  shew'd  the  rogues  they  lied  : 

The  man  recover'd  of  the  bite — 
The  do<r  it  was  that  died. 


THE    LOGICIANS    REFUTED.* 

IN  IMITATION  OF  DEAN  SWIFT. 

Logicians  have  but  ill  defined 
As  rational  the  human  mind : 
Reason,  they  say,  belongs  to  man, 
But  let  them  prove  it  if  they  can. 
Wise  Aristotle  ami  Smiglesius, 
By  ratiocinations  specious, 

•  This  happy  Initiation  iraa  adopted  bj  hi*  Dublin  publisher,  iu  a 
gennlne  poi  in  "f  Swift,  ami  as  such  it  has  been  reprinted  in  almost 
ever?  edition  of  the  Dean's  works.  Bven  Sir  Waller  Scott  has  iiuertttd 
it  without  my  rcouuk  in  his  edition  of  Swift's  Work*. 

\)  2 


58  THE  LOGICIANS  REFUTED. 

Have  strove  to  prove  with  great  precision, 

With  definition  and  division, 

Homo  est  ratione  predtum  ; 

But  for  my  soul  1  cannot  credit  'em  ; 

And  must  in  spite  of  them  maintain, 

That  man  and  all  his  ways  are  vain  ; 

And  that  this  boasted  lord  of  nature 

Is  both  a  weak  and  erring  creature  ; 

That  instinct  is  a  surer  guide 

Than  reason,  boasting  mortals'  pride  ; 

And  that  brute  beasts  are  far  before  'em— 

Deus  est  anima  brutorum. 

Who  ever  knew  an  honest  brute 

At  law  his  neighbour  prosecute, 

Bring  action  for  assault  and  battery  ? 

Or  friend  beguile  with  lies  and  flattery  1 

O'er  plains  they  ramble  unconfined, 

No  politics  disturb  their  mind  ; 

They  eat  their  meals,  and  take  their  sport. 

Nor  know  who's  in  or  out  at  court : 

They  never  to  the  levee  go 

To  treat  as  dearest  friend  a  foe  ; 

They  never  importune  his  grace, 

Nor  ever  cringe  to  men  in  place ; 

Nor  undertake  a  dirty  job, 

Nor  draw  the  quill  to  write  for  Bob.* 

Fraught  with  invective  they  ne'er  go 

To  folks  at  Paternoster  Row  : 

No  judges,  fiddlers,  dancing-masters, 

No  pickpockets,  or  poetasters, 

Are  known  to  honest  quadrupeds; 

No  single  brute  his  fellows  leads. 

Brutes  never  meet  in  bloody  fray, 

Nor  cut  each  other's  throats  for  pay. 

Of  beasts,  it  is  confess'd,  the  ape 

Comes  nearest  us  in  human  shape  j 

Like  man,  he  imitates  each  fashion, 

And  malice  is  his  ruling  passion : 

•  S/r  Robert  Wnlpole. 


A  NEW  SIMILE.  69 

But  both  in  malice  and  grimaces, 
A  courtier  any  ape  surpasses. 
Behold  him  humbly  cringing  wait 
Upon  the  minister  of  state  ; 
View  him  soon  after  to  inferiors 
Aping  the  conduct  of  superiors  : 
He  promises  with  equal  air, 
And  to  perform  takes  equal  care. 
He  in  his  turn  finds  imitators  j 
At  court  the  porters,  lacqueys,  waiters, 
Their  masters'  manners  still  contract, 
And  footmen,  lords  and  dukes  can  act. 
Thus  at  the  court,  both  great  and  small 
Behave  alike,  for  all  ape  all. 


A  NEW  SIMILE. 

IN    THE    MANNER     OF     SWIFT. 

Long  had  I  sought  in  vain  to  find 
A  likeness  for  the  scribbling  kind — 
The  modern  scribbling  kind,  who  write 
In  wit,  and  sense,  and  nature's  spite — 
'Jill  reading — 1  forget  what  day  on — 
A  chapter  out  of  Tooke's  Pantheon, 
I  think  I  met  with  something  there 
To  suit  my  purpose  to  a  hair. 
But  let  us  not  proceed  too  furious, — 
First  please  to  turn  to  god  Mercurius ; 
You'll  find  him  pictured  at  full  length, 
In  book  the  second,  page  the  tenth 
The  stress  of  all  my  proofs  on  him  I  lay, 
And  now  proceed  we  to  our  simile. 

Imprimis,  pray  observe  his  hat, 
Wings  upon  either  side — mark  that. 
Well  !  what  is  it  from  thence  we  gather  1 
Why,  these  denote  a  brain  of  feather. 
A  brain  of  feather  !    very  right, 
With  wit  that's  flighty,  learning  light ; 


60  A  NEW  SIMILE. 

Such  as  to  modern  bard's  decreed  : 
A  just  comparison — proceed. 

In  the  next  place,  his  feet  peruse, 
Wings  grow  again  from  both  his  shoes  j 
Design'd,  no  doubt,  their  part  to  bear, 
And  waft  his  godsliip  through  the  air  : 
And  here  my  simile  unites  ; 
For  in  a  modern  poet's  flights, 
I'm  sure  it  may  be  justly  said, 
His  feet  are  useful  as  his  head. 

Lastly,  vouchsafe  t'  observe  his  hand, 
Fill'd  with  a  snake-encircled  wand, 
By  classic  authors  term'd  caduceus, 
And  highly  famed  for  several  uses  : 
To  wit, — most  wondrcusly  endued, 
No  poppy  water  half  so  good  ; 
For  let  folks  only  get  a  touch, 
Its  soporific  virtue's  such, 
Though  ne'er  so  much  awake  before, 
That  quickly  they  begin  to  snore ; 
Add,  too,  what  certain  writers  tell, 
With  this  he  drives  men's  souls  to  hell. 

Now,  to  apply,  begin  we  then  : — 
His  wand's  a  modern  author's  pen  ; 
The  serpents  round  about  it  twin'd 
Denote  him  of  the  reptile  kind, 
Denote  the  rage  with  which  he  writes, 
His  frothy  slaver,  venom'd  bites ; 
An  equal  semblance  still  to  keep, 
Alike,  too,  both  conduce  to  sleep ; 
This  difference  only,  as  the  god 
Drove  souls  to  Tart'rus  with  his  rod, 
With  his  goose-quill  the  scribbling  elf, 
Instead  of  others,  damns  himself. 

And  here  my  simile  almost  tript, 
Yet  grant  a  word  by  way  of  postscript. 
Moreover,  Merc'ry  had  a  failing ; 
Well !  what  of  that  1  out  with  it — stealing ) 
In  which  all  modern  bards  agree, 
Being  each  as  great  a  thief  as  he. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  A  BED-CHAMBER.         61 

But  e'en  this  deity's  existence 
Shall  lend  my  simile  assistance  : 
Our  modern  bards  !  why,  what  a  pox, 
Are  they  but  senseless  stones  and  blocks  ? 


DESCRIPTION 


AUTHOR'S  BED-CHAMBER. 

Where  the  Red  Lion,  staring  o'er  the  way, 

Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay  ; 

Where  Calvert's  butt,  and  Parson's  black  champagne, 

Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury-lane  : 

There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 

The  Muse  found  Scroggen  stretch'd  beneath  a  rug; 

A  window,  patch'd  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 

That  dimly  shew'd  the  state  in  which  he  lay  ; 

The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread  ; 

The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread  ; 

The  royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view, 

And  the  twelve  rules  the  Royal  Martyr  drew  ; 

The  Seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a  place, 

And  brave  Prince  William  shew'd  his  lamp-black  face. 

The  mom  was  cold ;  he  views  with  keen  desire 

The  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire  : 

With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored, 

And  five  crack'd  tea-cups  dress'd  the  chimney-board  ; 

A  nightcap  deck'd  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 

A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day  !* 

A    P  R  O  L  O  G  U  E, 

WRITTEN    AND   SroKEN    BY   THE    POET   LABERIUS,   A    ROMAN 

KNIGHT,   WHOM    CESAR    FORCED    UPON  THE   STAGE. 

[Preserved  by  Macrobius.] 

What!  no  way  left  to  shun  th'  inglorious  stage, 
And  save  from  infamy  mv  sinking  age  ! 

•  The  sothor  ha*  plven,  with  a  very  slight  nit.  rntion,  a  simitar  de^ 
•cription  nf  the  alehouse,  In  the  Deserted  Village. 
.  jE 


— A 


62  STANZAS. 

Scarce  half  alive,  oppress'd  with  many  a  year, 
What  in  the  name  of  dotage  drives  me  here? 
A  time  there  was,  when  glory  was  my  guide, 
Nor  force  nor  fraud  could  turn  my  steps  aside; 
Unawed  by  pffwer,  and  unappall'd  by  fear, 
With  honest  thrift  I  held  my  honour  dear : 
But  this  vile  hour  disperses  all  my  store, 
And  all  my  hpard  of  honour  is  no  more ; 
For,  ah  !  too  partial  to  my  life's  decline, 
Caesar  persuades,  submission  must  be  mine; 
Him  I  obey,  whom  Heaven  itself  obeys, 
Hopeless  of  pleasing,  yet  inclined  to  please. 
Here  then  at  once  1  welcome  every  shame, 
And  cancel,  at  threescore,  a  life  of  fame : 
No  more  my  titles  shall  my  children  tell, 
The  old  buffoon  will  fit  my  name  as  well: 
This  day  beyond  its  term  my  fate  extends, 
For  life  is  ended  when  our  honour  ends. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  GLORY  OF  HER  SEX, 
MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE. 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord, 

Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word — 

From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  pass'd  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind  ; 
She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor — 

Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighbourhood  to  please 
With  manners  wondrous  winning ; 

And  never  follow'd  wicked  ways — 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size, 
She  never  slumber'd  in  her  pew — 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 


STANZAS.  C3 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver 

By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 
The  king  himself  has  follow'd  her— 

When  she  has  walk'd  before. 

But  now,  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 

Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all ; 
The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead— 

Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament  in  sorrow  sore, 

For  Kent  Street  well  may  say, 
That  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more — 

She  had  not  died  to-day. 

ON  A   BEAUTIFUL   YOUTH 

STRUCK   BLIND   BV    LIGHTNING. 

Sure  'twas  by  Providence  design'd, 

Rather  in  pity  than  in  hate, 
That  he  should  be,  like  Cupid,  blind, 

To  save  him  from  Narcissus'  fate. 

THE   CLOWN'S   RErLY. 
John  Trott  was  desired  by  two  witty  peers 
To  tell  them  the  reason  why  asses  had  ears  • 
'  An't  please  you,'  quoth  John,  «  I'm  not'  given  to 

letters, 
Nor  dare  I  pretend  to  know  more  than  my  betters 

Howe'er,  from  this  time,  I  shall  ne'er  see  your  "races 

As  I  hope  to  be  saved  !— without  thinking  on° asses.' 

EPITAPH    ON   DR.   PAUNELL. 

This  tomb,  inscribed  to  gentle  Parnii.l's  name, 

May  speak  our  gratitude",  but  not  his  fame. 

What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly  moral  lay, 

'I  hal  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure's  flowery  way  ] 

Celestial  themes  confess'd  his  tuneful  aid  ; 

And  Heaven,  that  lent  him  genius,  was  repaid. 


64  ST4NZAS. 

Needless  to  hirr  the  tribute  we  bestow. 
The  transitory  breatn  of  fame  below: 
More  lasting  rapture  from  his  works  shall  rise, 
While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skies.  ' 


EPITAPH   ON   EDWARD   PURDON.« 

Here  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 
Who  long  was  a  bookseller's  hack  : 

He  led  such  a  damnable  life  in  this  world, 
I  don't  think  he'll  wish  to  come  back. 


STANZAS   ON  THE  TAKING   OP  QUEBEC 

Amidst  the  clamour  of  exulting  joys, 

Which  triumph  forces  from  the  patriot  heart, 

Grief  dares  to  mingle  her  soul-piercing  voice, 

And  quells  the  raptures  which  from  pleasure  start, 

O  Wolfe  !  t  to  thee  a  streaming  flood  of  wo 
Sighing  we  pay,  and  think  e'en  conquest  dear; 

Quebec  in  vain  shall  teach  our  breast  to  glow, 
Whilst  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart-wrung  tear. 

Alive,  the  foe  thy  dreadful  vigour  fled, 

And  saw  thee  fall  with  joy-pronouncing  eyes: 

Yet  they  shall  know  thou  conquerest,  though  dead ! 
Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes  rise. 

STANZAS  ON  WOMAN. 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  sooth  her  melancholy  ? 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

•  This  gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin:  bu« 
having  wasted  his  patrimony,  lie  itilisted  as  a  foot  soldier.  Crowing 
tired  of  that  employment,  he  obtained  his  discharge,  and  became  a 
ccribbler  in  the  newspapers.     He  translated  Voltaire's  Jltnriade. 

t  Goldsmith  claimed  relationship  with  this  gallant  soldier,  whose 
character  he  greatly  admired. 


SONGS. 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 
^  To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye. 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  his  bosom,  is — to  die. 


A  SONNET.* 

Weeping,  murmuring,  complaining, 

Lost  to  every  gay  delight, 
Myra,  too  sincere  for  feigning, 

Fears  th'  approaching  bridal  nio-ht. 
Yet  why  impair  thy  bright  perfection, 

Or  dim  thy  beauty  with  a  tear? 
Had  Myra  follow'd  my  direction. 

She  long  had  wanted  cause  of  fear. 

SONG. 

From  the  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity. 

The  wretch  condemn'd  with  life  to  part, 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies  ; 
And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart 

Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper's  light, 
Adorns  and  cheers  the  way  ; 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 
Emits  a  brighter  ray. 


SONG. 

From  the  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity. 

O  memory  !  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain, 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain. 

»  Thla  Bonnet  is  imitated  from  a  French  madrigal  of  St.  P»vi«r 


65 


66  PROLOGUE  TO  ZOBElDE. 

Thou,  like  the  world,  the  oppress'd  oppressing, 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch's  wo  ; 

And  he  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 
In  thee  must  ever  find  a  fee. 


SONG. 

Intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  comedy  of  She  Sloops  to  Conquer, 
but  omitted,  because  Mrs.  Bulkley,  who  acted  the  part  of  Miss  nard 
castie,  couid  not  sing. 

Ah  me  !  when  shall  I  marry  me  1 

Lovers  are  plenty,  but  fail  to  relieve  me 

He,  fond  youth,  that  could  carry  me, 
Offers  to  love,  but  means  to  deceive  me. 

But  I  will  rally,  and  combat  the  ruiner : 

Not  a  look,  nor  a  smile,  shall  my  passion  discover. 

She  that  gives  all  to  the  false  one  pursuing  her, 
Makes  but  a  penitent,  and  loses  a  lover. 


PROLOGUE  TO  ZOBEIDE,  A  TRAGEDY; 

WR.TTEN    BY   JOSEPH   CRADOCK,   ESQ.,   ACTED  AT    THE 
THEATRE   ROYAL,  COVENT  GARDEN,  1772. 


SFOK.EX    BY   MR.   QUICK. 

In  these  bold  times,  when  Learning's  sons  explore 
The  distant  climates  and  the  savage  shore ; 
When  wise  astronomers  to  India  steer, 
And  quit  for  Venus  many  a  brighter  here  ; 
While  botanists,  all  cold  to  smiles  and  dimpling, 
Forsake  the  fair,  and  patiently — go  simpling : 
Our  bard  into  the  general  spirit  enters, 
And  fits  his  little  frigate  for  adventures. 
With  Scythian  stores,  and  trinkets  deeply  laden, 
He  this  way  steers  his  course,  in  hopes  of  trading; 
Yet  ere  he  lands  he  's  ordered  me  before, 
To  make  a-i  observation  on  the  shore. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  SISTEKS  67 

Where  are  we  driven  1  our  reckoning  sure  is  lost ! 
This  seems  a  rocky  and  a  dangerous  coast. 
Lord,  what  a  sultry  climate  am  I  under  ! 
Yon  ill- foreboding  cloud  seems  big  with  thunder: 

[  Upper  Gallery. 
There  mangroves  spread,  and  larger  than  I've  seen 

'em —  [Pit. 

Here  trees  of  stately  sire — and  billing  turtles  in  'em. 

[Balccmies. 
Here  ill-condition'd  oranges  abound —  [Stage. 

And  apples,  bitter  apples,  strew  the  ground  : 

[Tasting  them. 
The  inhabitants  are  cannibals,  I  fear : 
I  heard  a  hissing — there  are  serpents  here! 
Oh,  there  the  people  are — best  keep  my  distance : 
Our  Captain,  gentle  natives,  craves  assistance  ; 
Our  ship  's  well  stored — in  yonder  creek  we've  laid 

her, 
His  Honour  is  no  mercenary  trader. 
This  is  his  first  adventure  :  lend  him  aid, 
And  we  may  chance  to  drive  a  thriving  trade. 
His  goods,  he  hopes,  are  prime,  and  brought  from  far, 
Equally  fit  for  gallantry  and  war. 
What!  no  reply  to  promises  so  ample? 
I  'd  best  step  back — and  order  up  a  sample. 

EPILOGUE 


TO  THE  COMEDY  OF  THE  SISTERS.* 

What!  five  long  acts — and  all  to  make  us  wiser! 
Our  authoress  sure  has  wanted  an  adviser. 
Had  she  consulted  me,  she  should  have  made 
Her  moral  play  a  speaking  masquerade  : 
Warm'd  up  each  bustling  scene,  and  in  her  rage, 
Have  emptied  all  the  green-room  on  the  stage. 
My  life  on't  this  had  kept  her  play  from  sinking, 
Have  pleased  our  eyes,  and  saved  the  pain  of  thinking. 

*  By  Mrs.  Charlotte  Lennox,  author  of  the  Female  Qui  rote,  Shak- 
tpean  illustrated.  Sec.  U  ym  performed  one  nitjht  only  at  Ooveni 
Harden,  In  i76'_t.  Tins  lady  was  praised  by  Dr.  Johoion,  as  the  cio- 
.<  rtst  female  writ,  r  of  Iter  age. 


68  EPILOGUE  TO  THE  SISTERS. 

Well,  since  she  thus  has  shewn  her  want  of  skill, 

What  if  I  give  a  masquerade  1 — I  will. 

But  howl  ay,  there's  the  rub!  [pausing]   I've  got 

my  cue : 
The  world's  a  masquerade!    the  masquers,  you,  you, 

you.  [To  Boxes,  Pit,  and  Gallery. 

Lud  !  what  a  group  the  motley  scene  discloses  ! 
False  wits,  false  wives,  false  virgins,  and  false  spouses ! 
Statesmen  with  bridles  on ;  and,  close  beside  'em, 
Patriots  in  party-colour'd  suits  that  ride  'em  : 
There  Hebes,  turn'd  of  fifty,  try  once  more 
To  raise  a  flame  in  Cupids  of  threescore  ; 
These  in  their  turn,  with  appetites  as  keen, 
Deserting  fifty,  fasten  on  fifteen  : 
Miss,  not  yet  full  fifteen,  with  fire  uncommon, 
Flings  down  her  sampler,  and  takes  up  the  woman ; 
The  little  urchin  smiles,  and  spreads  her  lure, 
And  tries  to  kill,  ere  she's  got  power  to  cure. 
Thus  'tis  with  all :  their  chief  and  constant  care 
Is  to  seem  every  thing — but  what  they  are. 
Yon  broad,  bold,  angry  spark,  I  fix  my  eye  on, 
Who  seems  t'  have  robb'd  his  vizor  from  the  lion; 
Who  frowns,  and  talks,  and  swears,  with  round 

parade, 
Looking,  as  who  should  say,  Damme !  whose  afraid  ? 

[Mimicking. 
Strip  but  this  vizor  off,  and,  sure  I  am, 
.You'll  find  his  lionship  a  very  lamb: 
Yon  politician,  famous  in  debate, 
Perhaps,  to  vulgar  eyes,  bestrides  the  state; 
Yet,  when  he  deigns  his  real  shape  t'  assume, 
He  turns  old  woman,  and  bestrides  a  broom. 
Yon  patriot,  too,  who  presses  on  your  sight, 
And  seems,  to  every  gazer,  all  in  white, 
If  with  a  bribe  his  candour  you  attack, 
He  bows,  turns  round,  and  whip — the  man's  in  black! 
Yon  critic,  too — but  whither  do  I  run  ? 
If  I  proceed,  our  bard  will  be  undone  ! 
Well,  then,  a  truce,  since  she  requests  it  too  : 
Do  you  spare  her,  and  I'll  for  once  spare  you. 


EPILOGUE 

SPOKEN   BY 

MRS.  BULKLEY  AND  MISS  CATLEY. 

Enter  Mrs.  Dulkley,  who  curtsies  very  low,  as  begin 
ning  to  speak.  Then  enter  Miss  Catley,  who  stands 
full  before  her,  and  curtsies  to  the  audience. 

Mrs.  Bulkley.  Hold,  Ma'am,  your  pardon.  What's 

your  business  here? 
Miss  Catley.  The  Epilogue. 
Mrs.  B.  The  Epilogue  ? 
Miss  C.  Yes,  the  Epilogue,  my  dear. 
Mrs.  B.  Sure  you  mistake,  Ma'am.   The  Epilogue! 

I  bring  it. 
Miss  C.  Excuse  me,  Ma'am.     The  author  bid  me 

sing  it. 

Recitative. 

Ye  beaux  and  belles,  that  form  this  splendid  ring, 
Suspend  your  conversation  while  I  sing. 

Mrs.B.  Why,  sure  the  girl's  beside  herself!  an 
Epilogue  of  singing? 
A  hopeful  end,  indeed,  to  such  a  blest  beginning. 
Besides,  a  singer  in  a  comic  set — 
Excuse  me,  Ma'am,  1  know  the  etiquette. 

Miss  C.  What  if  we  leave  it  to  the  house  ? 

Mrs.  B.  The  house! — Agreed. 

Miss  C.  Agreed. 

Mrs.  B.  And  she  whose  party's  largest  shall 
proceed. 
And  first,  I  hope  you'll  readily  agree 
I've  all  the  critics  and  the  wits  for  me. 
They,  I  am  sure,  will  answer  my  commands: 
Ye  candid  judging  few,  hold  up  your  hands. 
What !  no  return?     I  find  too  late,  I  fear, 
That  modern  judges  seldom  enter  here. 


70  KHILOGUE. 

Miss  C.  I'm  for  a  different  set: — Old  men,  whose 
trade  is 
Still  to  gallant  and  dangle  with  the  ladies. 

Recitative. 

Who  mump  their  passion,  and  who,  grimly  smiling, 
Still  thus  address  the  fair  with  voice  beguiling  : 

Air. — Cotillon. 

Turn,  my  fairest,  turn,  if  ever 
Strephon  caught  thy  ravish'd  eye, 
Pity  take  on  your  swain  so  clever, 
Who  without  your  aid  must  die. 

Yes,  I  shall  die,  hu,  hu,  hu,  hu! 

Yes,  I  must  die,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho! 

Da  Capo. 

Mrs.  B.  Let  all  the  old  pay  homage  to  your  merit; 
Give  me  the  young,  the  gay,  the  men  of  spirit. 
Ye  travell'd  tribe,  ye  macaroni  train, 
Of  French  friseurs  and  nosegays  justly  vain, 
Who  take  a  trip  to  Paris  once  a-year, 
To  dress,  and  look  like  awkward  Frenchmen  here, — 
Lend  me  your  hands :  O  fatal  news  to  tell, 
Their  hands  are  only  lent  to  the  Heinelle. 

Miss  C.  Ay,  take  your  travellers — travellers  indeed! 
Give  me  my  bonny  Scot,  that  travels  from  the  Tweed. 
Where  are  the  chiels!  Ah,  ah,  I  well  discern 
The  smiling  looks  of  each  bewitching  bairn. 

Air. — A  bonnie  young  Lad  is  my  Jockey. 

I'll  sing  to  amuse  you  by  night  and  by  day, 

And  be  unco  merry  when  you  are  but  gay ; 

When  you  with  your  bagpipes  are  ready  to  play, 

My  voice  shall  be  ready  to  carol  away 

With  Sandy,  and  Sawney,  and  Jockey, 
With  Savvuie,  and  Jarvie,  and  Jockey. 

Mrs.  B.  Ye  gamesters,  who,  so  eager  in  pursuit, 
Make  but  of  all  your  fortune  one  va  toute: 


fcPliyOGl.'ii.  71 

Ye  jockey  tribe,  whose  stock  of  words  are  few, 

'  I  hold  the  odds — Done,  done,  with  you,  with  you!' 

Ye  barristers,  so  fluent  with  grimace, 

'  My  Lord,  your  Lordship  misconceives  the  case  :' 

Doctors,  who  answer  every  misfortuner, 

*  I  wish  I'd  been  calPd  in  a  little  sooner :' 

Assist  my  cause  with  hands  and  voices  hearty, 

Come,  end  the  contest  here,  and  aid  my  party. 

Ai  r. — Ballinamony. 
Mist  C.  Ye  brave  Irish  lads,  hark  away  to  the  crack, 
Assist  me,  I  pray,  in  this  woful  attack ; 
For — sure  I  don't  wrong  you — you  seldom  are  slack, 
When  the  ladies  are  calling,  to  blush  and  hang  back. 
For  you  are  always  polite  and  attentive, 
Stdl  to  amuse  us  inventive, 
And  death  is  your  only  preventive  : 
^  our  hinds  and  your  voices  for  me. 

Mrs.  B.   Well,  Madam,  what  if,  after  all  this  spar- 
ring, 
We  botli  agree,  like  friends,  to  end  our  jarring'? 

Miss  C.  And  that  our  friendship  may  remain  un- 
broken, 
What  if  we  leave  the  Epilogue  unspoken  ? 
Mrs.  B.  Agreed. 
Miss  C.  Agreed. 

Mrs.  B.  And  now  with  late  repentance, 
Un-epilogued  the  Poet  waits  his  sentence. 
Condemn  the  stubborn  fool,  who  can't  submit 
To  thrive  by  flattery,  though  he  starves  by  wit. 

Exeunt. 

AN  EPILOGUE 

INTENDED    FOR    MRS.   BULKLEY. 

There  is  a  place — so  Ariosto  sings — 

A  treasury  for  lost  and  missing  things, 

Lost  human  wits  have  places  there  assign'd  them, 

And  they  who  lo-^c  their  senses,  there  may  find  them 


72 


EPILOGUE. 


But  where 's  this  place,  this  storehouse  of  the  age  t 
The  Moon,  says  he ;    but  I  affirm,  the  Stage— 
At  least,  in  many  things,  I  think  I  see 
His  lunar  and  our  mimic  world  agree  : 
Both  shine  at  night,  for,  but  at  Foote's  alone, 
We  scarce  exhibit  till  the  sun  goes  down  ; 
Both  prone  to  change,  no  settled  limits  fix, 
And  sure  the  folks  of  both  are  lunatics. 
But  in  this  parallel  my  best  pretence  is, 
That  mortals  visit  both  to  find  their  senses  : 
To  this  strange  spot,  Rakes,  Macaronies,  Cits, 
Come  thronging  to  collect  their  scatter'd  wits. 
The  gay  coquette,  who  ogles  all  the  day, 
Comes  here  at  night,  and  goes  a  prude  away. 
Hither  th'  affected  city  dame  advancing. 
Who  sighs  for  Operas,  and  doats  on  dancing, 
Taught  by  our  art,  her  ridicule  to  pause  on, 
Quits  the  Ballet,  and  calls  for  Nuncy  Dawson. 
The  Gamester,  too,  whose  wit's  all  high  or  low, 
Oft  risks  his  fortune  on  one  desperate  throw, 
Comes  here  to  saunter,  having  made  his  bets, 
Finds  his  lost  senses  out,  and  pays  his  debts. 
The  Mohawk,  too,  with  angry  phrases  stored — 
As,  '  Damme,  Sir  !'  and  '  Sir,  I  wear  a  sword  !'— 
Here  lesson'd  for  a  while,  and  hence  retreating, 
Goes  out,  affronts  his  man,  and  takes  a  beating. 
Here  come  the  sons  of  scandal  and  of  news, 
But  find  no  sense — for  they  had  none  to  lose. 
Of  all  the  tribe  here  wanting  an  adviser. 
Our  Author's  the  least  likely  to  grow  wiser ; 
Has  he  not  seen  how  you  your  favour  place 
On  sentimental  queens  and  lords  in  lace  ] 
Without  a  star,  a  coronet,  or  garter, 
How  can  the  piece  expect  or  hope  for  quarter  1 
No  high-life  scenes,  r.o  sentiment :  the  creature 
Still  stoops  among  the  low  to  copy  Nature. 
Yes,  he's  far  gone  :  and  yet  some  p'ty  fix, 
The  English  laws  forbid  to  punish  unatics. 


EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN   BY   lilt.   LEE  LEWES,  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OP 
HARLEQUIN  AT  HIS  BENEFIT. 

Hold!  Prompter, hold!  a  word  before  your  nonsense 
I'd  speak  a  word  or  two,  to  ease  my  conscience. 
My  pride  forbids  it  ever  should  be  said 
My  heels  eclipsed  the  honours  of  my  head  ; 
That  I  found  humour  in  a  piebald  vest, 
Or  ever  thought  that  jumping  was  a  jest. 

[Takes  off  his  masn 
Whence,  and  what  art  thou,  visionary  birth'? 
Nature  disowns,  and  reason  scorns,  thy  mirth  : 
In  thy  black  aspect  every  passion  sleeps, 
The  joy  that  dimples,  and  the  wo  that  weeps. 
How  hast  thou  fill'd  the  scene  with  all  thy  brood 
Of  fools  pursuing,  and  of  fools  pursued  ! 
Whose  ins  and  outs  no  ray  of  sense  discloses, 
Whose  only  plot  it  is  to  break  our  noses  j 
Whilst  from  below  the  tup-door  demtns  rise, 
And  from  above  the  dangling  deities : 
And  shall  I  mix  in  this  unhallow'd  crew! 
May  rosin'd  lightning  blast  me  if  I  do ! 
No — I  will  act — I  '11  vindicate  the  stage  : 
Shakspeare  himself  shall  feel  my  tragic  rage. 
Off!  off!  vile  trappings  !  a  new  passion  reigns  ! 
The  madd'ning  monarch  revels  in  my  veins. 
Oh  !  for  a  Richard's  voice  to  catch  the  theme, — 
'  Give  me  another  horse  I  bind  up  my  wounds ! — soft— 

'twas  but  a  dream.' 
Ay,  'twas  but  a  dream,  for  now  there's  no  retreating, 
If  I  cease  Harlequin,  I  cease  from  eating. 
'Twas  thus  that  iEsop's  stag,  a  creature  blameless, 
Yet  something  vain,  like  one  that  shall  be  nameless 
Once  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain  stood, 
And  cavill'd  at  his  image  in  the  Hood : 
E 


74  EPILOGUE. 

« The  deuce  confound,'  he  cries,  '  these  drumstick 

shanks, 
They  never  have  my  gratitude  nor  thanks  ; 
They're  perfectly  disgraceful !  nrike  me  dead  ! 
But  for  a  head,  yes,  yes,  I  have  a  head : 
How  piercing  is  that  eye  !  how  sleek  that  brow ! 
My  horns  ! — I'm  told  horns  are  the  fashion  now.' 

Whilst  thus  he  spoke,  astonish'd,  to  his  view, 
Near,  and  more  near,  the  hounds  and  huntsmen 

drew ; 
«  Hoicks  !    hark  forward  !'    came  thund'ring  from 

behind  • 
He  bounds  aloft,  outstrips  the  fleeting  wind ; 
He  quits  the  woods,  and  tries  the  beaten  wayg ; 
He  starts,  he  pants,  he  takes  the  circling  maie  : 
At  length,  his  silly  head,  so  prized  before, 
Is  taught  his  former  folly  to  deplore  ; 
Whilst  his  strong  limbs  conspire  to  set  him  free, 
And  st  one  bound  he  saves  himself — like  me. 

[Taking  a  jump  through  the  stage  door. 


75 


THRENODIA   AUGUSTALIS.» 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OP  HER  LATE  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  TBB 

PRINCESS   DOWAGER  OF  WALES. 

SPOKEN   AND   SUNG    IN   THE   GREAT   ROOM    IN   SOHO-SQUAKE, 

Thursday,  the  20th  of  February,  1772. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  following  may  more  properly  be  termed  a  com- 
pilation than  a  poem.  It  was  prepared  for  the  composer 
in  little  more  than  two  days:  and  may  therefore  rather 
be  considered  as  an  industrious  effort  of  gratitude  than 
of  genius. 

In  justice  to  the  composer,  it  may  likewise  he  right 
to  inform  the  public,  that  the  music  was  adapted  in  a 
period  of  time  equally  short. 

Speakers— Mr.  Lee  and  Mrs.  Bellamy. 

Singers— Mr.  Champnes,  Mr.  Dine,  and  Miss  Jameson. 

THB  MUSIC  PREPARED  AND  ADAPTED  BY  SIGNIOR  YENTO. 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 

OVERTURE— A  SOLEMN    DIRGE. 
AIR — TRIO. 

Arise,  ye  sons  of  worth,  arise, 

And  waken  every  note  of  wo ! 
When  truth  and  virtue  reach  the  skies 

'Tis  ours  to  weep  the  want  below. 

•  ThU  poem  was  first  printed  in  Chalmers'  edition  of  tlie  EiiglUh 
f'otfi,  from  a  cony  given  by  Goldsmith  to  his  friend,  Joseph  Lrudork, 
E»q.,  author  of  die  tragedy  of  XoUide. 


7B  THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 

CHORUS. 

When  truth  and  virtue,  &c. 

MAN   SPEAKER. 

The  praise  attending  pomp  and  power, 

The  incense  given  to  kings, 
Are  but  the  trappings  of  an  hour, 

Mere  transitory  things. 
The  base  bestow  them  ;  but  the  good  agree 
To  spurn  the  venal  gifts  as  flattery. 
But  when  to  pomp  and  power  are  join'd 
An  equal  dignity  of  the  mind  ; 

When  titles  are  the  smallest  claim  ; 
When  wealth,  and  rank,  and  noble  blood, 
But  aid  the  power  of  doing  good  : 

Then  all  their  trophies  last — and  flattery  turns  to 
fame. 

Blest  spirit  thou,  whose  fame,  just  born  to  bloom, 
Shall  spread  and  flourish  from  the  tomb, 

How  hast  thou  left  mankind  for  Heaven ! 
Even  now  reproach  and  faction  mourn, 
And,  wondering  how  their  rage  was  born, 

.Request  to  be  forgiven  ! 
Alas  !  they  never  had  thy  hate  ; 

Unmoved,  in  conscious  rectitude, 

Thy  towering  mind  self-centred  stood, 
Nor  wanted  man's  opinion  to  be  great. 

In  vain,  to  charm  the  ravish'd  sight, 
A  thousand  gifts  would  fortune  send ; 

In  vain,  to  drive  thee  from  the  right, 
A  thousand  sorrows  urged  thy  end  : 
Like  some  well-fashion'd  arch  thy  patience  stood, 
And  purchased  strength  from  its  increasing  load. 
Pain  met  thee  like  a  friend  to  set  thee  free, 
Affliction  still  is  virtue's  opportunity  ! 
Virtue,  on  herself  reiving, 

Every  passion  hush'd  to  rest, 
Loses  every  pain  of  dying 

In  the  hopes  of  being  blest. 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS.  77 

Every  added  pang  she  suffers 

Some  increasing  good  bestows, 
And  every  shock  that  malice  offers 

Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 

SONG.      BY  A   MAN — AFFETflOSO. 

Virtue,  on  herself  relying,  &C. 

to 
Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 

WOMAN   SPEAKER. 

Yet  ah  !  what  terrors  frown'd  upon  her  fate, 

Death,  with  its  formidable  band, 
Fever,  and  pain,  and  pale  consumptive  care. 

Determined  took  their  stand. 
Nor  did  the  cruel  ravagers  design 

To  finish  all  their  efforts  at  a  blow : 

But,  mischievously  slow, 
They  robb'd  the  relic  and  defaced  the  shrine. 

With  unavailing  grief, 

Despairing  of  relief, 
Her  weeping  children  round 

Beheld  each  hour 

Death's  growing  pow'r, 
And  trembled  as  he  frown'd. 
As  helpless  friends  who  view  from  shore 
The  labouring  ship,  and  hear  the  tempest  roar, 

While  winds  and  waves  their  wishes  cross,— 
They  stood,  while  hope  and  comfort  fail, 
Not  to  assist,  but  to  bewail 

The  inevitable  loss. 
Relentless  tyrant,  at  thy  call 
How  do  the  good,  the  virtuous  fall ! 
Truth,  beauty,  worth,  and  all  that  most  engage, 
But  wake  thy  vengeance  and  provoke  thy  rage. 

SONG.      BY    A    MAN — BASSO,  STOCCATO,   SPIRITCOSO. 

When  vice  my  dart  and  sc.vthe  supply, 
How  great  a  King  of  Terrors  I ! 
If  folly,  fraud,  your  hearts  engage, 
Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage  !  / 

2F 


78 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 


Fall,  round  me  fall,  ye  little  things, 
Ye  statesmen,  warriors,  poets,  kings, 
If  virtue  fail  her  counsel  sage, 
Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage  ! 

MAN   SPEAKER. 

Yet  et  that  wisdom,  urged  by  her  example, 
Teach  us  to  estimate  what  all  must  suffer  : 
Let  us  prize  death  as  the  best  gift  of  nature, 
As  a  "safe  inn  where  weary  travellers, 
When  they  have  journey'd  through  a  world  of  cares, 
May  put  off  life,  and  be  at  rest  for  ever. 
Groans,  weeping  friends,  indeed,  and  gloomy  sables, 
May  oft  distract  us  with  their  sad  solemnity  : 
The  preparation  is  the  executioner. 
Death,  when  unmask'd,  shews  me  a  friendly  face, 
And  is  a  terror  only  at  a  distance  : 
For  as  the  line  of  kfe  conducts  me  on 
To  Death's  great  court,  the  prospect  seems  more  fair; 
'Tis  Nature's  kind  retreat,  that's  always  open 
To  take  us  in  when  we  have  drain'd  the  cup 
Of  life,  or  worn  our  days  to  wretchedness. 
In  that  secure,  serene  retreat, 
Where  all  the  humble,  all  the  great, 

Promiscuously  recline  ; 
Where,  wildly  huddled  to  the  eye, 
The  beggar's  pouch  and  prince's  purple  lie : 

May  every  bliss  be  thine  ! 
And,  ah  !  blest  spirit,  wheresoe'er  thy  flight, 
Through  rolling  worlds,  or  fields  of  liquid  light, 
May  cherubs  welcome  their  expected  guest! 
May  saints  with  songs  receive  thee  to  their  rest ! 
May  peace,  that  claim'd,  while  here,  thy  warmest  love. 
May  blissful,  endless  peace  be  thine  above  ! 

SONC.      BY  A   WOMAN — AMOROSO. 

Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  below, 
Comforter  of  every  wo, 
Heavenly  born,  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  favourites  of  the  sky  ! 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS.  79 

Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  appear ! 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

WOMAN   SPEAKER. 

Our  vows  are  heard  !  Long,  long  to  mortal  eyes, 

Her  soul  was  fitting  to  its  kindred  skies  : 

Celestial-like  her  bounty  fell, 

Where  modest  Want  and  patient  Sorrow  dwell ; 

Want  pass'd  for  Merit  at  her  door, 

Unseen  the  modest  were  supplied, 

Her  constant  pity  fed  the  poor, — • 

Then  only  poor,  indeed,  the  day  she  died. 

And,  oh  !  for  this,  while  sculpture  decks  thy 

And  art  exhausts  profusion  round, 
The  tribute  of  a  tear  be  mine, 

A  simple  song,  a  sigh  profound. 
There  Faith  shall  come — a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  tomb  that  wraps  thy  clay  ! 
And  calm  Religion  shall  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 
Truth,  Fortitude,  and  Friendship,  shall  agree 
To  blend  their  virtues  while  they  think  of  thee 

AIR — CHORUS   POMPOSO. 

Let  us — let  all  the  world  agree, 
To  profit  by  resembling  thee. 

TART  II. 

OVERTURE— PASTOR  ALB. 
MAN  SPEAKER. 

Fast  by  that  shore  where  Thames'  translucent  stream 

Reflects  new  glories  on  his  breast, 
Where,  splendid  as  the  youthful  poet's  dream, 

He  forms  a  scene  beyond  Elysium  blest ; 
Where  sculptured  elegance  and  native  grace 
Unite  to  stamp  the  beauties  of  the  place ; 


80  THRENOD1A  AUGUSTALIS. 

While,  sweetly  blending,  still  are  seen 
The  wavy  lawn,  the  sloping  green  ; 

While  novelty,  with  cautious  cunning, 

Through  every  maze  of  fancy  running, 
From  China  borrows  aid  to  deck  the  scene: 
There,  sorrowing  by  the  river's  glassy  bed, 

Forlorn,  a  rural  band  complain'd, 
All  whom  Augusta's  bounty  fed, 

All  whom  her  clemency  sustain'd  ; 
The  good  old  sire,  unconscious  of  decay, 
The  modest  matron,  clad  in  home-spun  gray, 
The  military  boy,  the  orphan'd  maid, 
The  shatter'd  veteran  now  first  dismay'd, — 
These  sadly  join  beside  the  murmuring  deep, 

And,  as  they  view  the  towers  of  Kew, 
Call  on  their  mistress — now  no  more — and  weep. 

CHORUS. — AFFETUOSO,   LARGO. 

Ye  shady  walks,  ye  waving  greens, 

Ye  nodding  towers,  ye  fairy  scenes, 

Let  all  your  echoes  now  deplore, 

That  she  who  form'd  your  beauties  is  no  more* 


MAN   SPEAKER 


First  of  the  train  the  patient  rustic  came, 

Whose  callous  hand  had  form'd  the  scene, 
Bending  at  once  with  sorrow  and  with  age. 

With  many  a  tear,  and  many  a  sigh  between : 
'  And  where,'  he  cried,  '  shall  now  my  babes  have 
bread, 

Or  how  shall  age  support  its  feeble  fire  1 
No  lord  will  take  me  now,  my  vigour  fled. 

Nor  can  my  strength  perform  what  they  require : 
Each  grudging  master  keeps  the  labourer  bare, 
A  sleek  and  idle  race  is  all  their  care. 
My  noble  mistress  thought  not  so : 

Her  bounty,  like  the  morning  dew, 
Unseen,  though  constant,  used  to  flow, 

And  u6  my  strength  decay'd,  her  bounty  grew.' 


r^_ 


-rtfRENODIA  A  I'D I  STALKS. 

WOMAN    SPEAKER. 

In  decent  dress,  and  coarsely  clean, 

The  pious  matron  next  was  seen, 

Clasp'd  in  her  hand  a  godly  book  was  borne, 

By  use  and  daily  meditation  worn  ; 

That  decent  dress,  this  holy  guide, 

Augusta's  cares  had  well  supplied. 

'  And,  ah  !'  she  cries,  all  wobegone, 

*  What  now  remains  for  me  1 
Oh  !  where  shall  weeping  want  repair 

To  ask  for  charity  1 
Too  late  in  life  for  me  to  ask, 

And  shame  prevents  the  deed, 
And  tardy,  tardy  are  the  times 

To  succour  should  1  need. 
But  all  my  wants,  before  I  spoke, 

Were  to  my  mistress  known  ; 
She  still  relieved,  nor  sought  my  praise, 

Contented  with  her  own. 
But  every  day  her  name  I'll  bless, 

My  morning  prayer,  my  evening  song, 
I'll  praise  her  while  my  life  shall  last, 

A  life  that  cannot  last  me  long.' 

SONG. — BY   A    WOMAN. 

Each  day,  each  hour,  her  name  I'll  bless, 
My  morning  and  my  evening  song, 

And  when  in  death  my  vows  shall  cease, 
My  children  shall  the  note  prolong. 

MAN    SPEAKER. 

The  hardy  veteran  after  struck  the  sight, 
Scarr'd,  mangled,  maim'd  in  every  part, 
Lopp'd  of  his  hmbs  in  many  a  gallant  fight, 
In  nought  entire — except  his  heart : 
Mute  for  a  while,  and  sullenly  distrest, 
At  last  th'  impetuous  sorrow  fired  his  breast : 
E2 


81 


t  THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 

'  Wild  is  the  whirlwind  rolling 

O'er  Afric's  sandy  plain, 
And  wide  the  tempest  howling 

Along  the  billow'd  main  : 
But  every  danger  felt  before, 
The  raging  deep,  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
Less  dreadful  struck  me  with  dismay 
Than  what  I  feel  this  fatal  day. 
Oh,  let  me  fly  a  land  that  spurns  the  brave, 
Oswego's  dreary  shores  shall  be  my  grave; 
I'll  seek  that  less  inhospitable  coast, 
And  lay  my  body  where  my  limbs  were  lost. 

SONG. — BIT   A    MAN. — BASSO   SPIRITOOSO. 

Old  Edward's  sons,  unknown  to  yield, 
Shall  crowd  from  Cressy's  laurell'd  field. 

To  do  thy  memory  right : 
For  thine  and  Britain's  wrongs  they  feel» 
Again  they  snatch  the  gleamy  steel, 

And  wish  th'  avenging  fight. 


WOMAN   SPEAKER. 

In  innocence  and  youth  complaining, 

Next  appear'd  a  lovely  maid  ; 
Affliction,  o'er  each  featuie  reigning, 

Kindly  came  in  beauty's  aid : 
Every  grace  that  grief  dispenses, 

Every  glance  that  warms  the  sou  , 
In  sweet  succession  charms  the  senses, 

While  Pity  harmonized  the  whole. 
•  The  garland  of  beauty,'  'tis  thus  she  would  say, 

'  No  more  shall  my  crook  or  my  temples  adorn, 
I'll  not  wear  a  garland — Augusta's  away — 

I'll  not  wear  a  garland  until  she  return. 
But,  alas  !  that  return  I  never  shall  see : 

The  echoes  of  Thames  shall  my  sorrows  proclaim, 
There  promised  a  lover  to  come — but,  ah  me ! 

'Twas  death — 'twas  the  death  of  my  mistress  that 
came. 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS.  83 

But  ever,  for  ever,  her  image  shall  last, 

I'll  strip  all  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom  ; 
On  her  grave  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 

And  the  new-blossom'd  thorn  shall  whiten  her  tomb.' 

SONG. — BY   A   WOMAN. — PASTORALE. 

With  garlands  of  beauty  the  Queen  of  the  May 
No  more  will  her  crook  or  her  temples  adorn , 

For  who'd  wear  a  garland  when  she  is  away, 
When  she  is  removed,  and  shall  never  return  ? 

On  the  grave  of  Augusta  these  garlands  be  placed, 
We'll  rifle  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom, 

And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 
And  the  new-blossom'd  thorn  shall  whiten  her  tomb. 

CHORUS. — ALTRO   MODO. 

On  the  grave  of  Augusta  this  garland  be  placed, 
We'll  rifle  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom. 

And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 
And  the  tears  of  her  country  snail  water  her  tomb. 


..: 


84 


THE  CAPTIVITY:    AN  ORATORIO.'" 

THE   PERSONS. 

First  Jewish  Prophet.         First  Chaldean  Priest. 
Second  Jewish  Prophet.      Second  Chaldean  Priest. 
Israelitish  Woman.  Chaldean  Woman. 

Chorus  of  Youths  and  Virgins. 
Scene—  The  Banks  of the  River  Euphrates  near  Babylon 


ACT  THE  FIRST. 

FIRST   PROPHET. 

Ye  captive  tribes  that  hourly  work  and  weep 
Where  flows  Euphrates  murmuring  to  the  deeD, 
Suspend  your  woes  a  while,  the  task  suspend,* 
And  turn  to  God,  your  father  and  your  fnend  r 
*      Insulted,  chain'd,  and  all  the  world  our  foe, 
Our  God  alone  is  all  we  boast  below. 

Air. 

FIRST   PROPHET. 

Our  God  is  all  we  boast  below 

To  him  we  turn  our  eyes ; 
And  every  added  weight  of  wo 

Shall  make  our  homage  rise. 

SECOND   PROPHET. 

And  though  no  temple  richly  dress'd, 

Nor  sacrifice  is  here, 
We'll  make  his  temple  in  our  breast, 

And  offer  up  a  tear. 

[The  first  stanza  repeated  by  the  Chords. 

*  This  was  first  printed  from  the  original,  in  Dr.  Goldsmith's  otti< 
hand-writing:,  in  the  Svo.  editiun  of  his  Miscellaneous  Worts,  |»n(. 
lished  in  1820. 


THE  CAPTIVITY:   AN   ORATORIO.  85 


ISRAELITISH   WOMAN. 


That  strain  once  more  !  it  bids  remembrance  rise, 

And  brings  my  long-lost  country  to  mine  eyes : 

Ye  fields  of  Sharon,  dress'd  in  flowery  pride, 

Ye  plains  where  Kedron  rolls  its  glassy  tide, 

Ye  hills  of  Lebanon,  with  cedars  crown'd, 

Ye  Gilead  groves,  that  fling  perfumes  around, — 

How  sweet  those  groves !  that  plain  how  wondrous 

fair ! 
How  doubly  sweet  when  Heaven  was  with  us  there  I 

Air. 

O  Memory  !  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain  ; 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain : 

Hence,  intruder  most  distressing  ! 

Seek  the  happy  and  the  free : 
The  wretch  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 

Ever  wants  a  friend  in  thee. 

SECOND   PROPHET. 

Yet  why  complain  1  What  though  by  bonds  confined, 

Should  bonds  repress  the  vigour  of  the  mind  ? 

Have  we  not  cause  for  triumph,  when  we  see 

Ourselves  alone  from  idol-worship  free  ? 

Are  not,  this  very  morn,  those  feasts  begun 

Where  prostrate  error  hails  the  rising  sun? 

Do  not  our  tyrant  lords  this  day  ordain 

For  superstitious  rites  and  mirth  profane? 

And  should  we  mourn?    Should  coward  virtue  fly, 

When  vaunting  folly  lifts  her  head  on  high? 

No  !  rather  let  us  triumph  still  the  more, 

And  as  our  fortune  sinks,  our  spirits  soar. 

Air. 

The  triumphs  that  on  vice  attend 
Shall  ever  in  confusion  end  ; 


86  THE  CAPTIVITY:   AN  ORATORIO. 

The  good  man  suffers  but  to  gain,      * 
And  every  virtue  springs  from  pain : 
As  aromatic  plants  bestow 
No  spicy  fragrance  while  they  grow ; 
But  crush'd,  or  trodden  to  the  ground, 
Diffuse  their  balmy  sweets  around. 

FIRST   PROPHET. 

But  hush,  my  sons,  our  tyrant  lords  are  near, 

The  sounds  of  barbarous  pleasure  strike  mine  ear; 

Triumphant  music  floats  along  the  vale, 

Near,  nearer  still,  it  gathers  on  the  gale : 

The  growing  sound  their  swift  approach  declares— 

Desist,  my  sons,  nor  mix  the  strain  with  theira 


Enter  Chaldean  Pkiests  attended. 
Air. 


FIRST   PRIEST. 


Come  on,  my  companions,  the  triumph  display, 

Let  rapture  the  minutes  employ  ; 
The  sun  calls  us  out  on  this  festival  day, 

And  our  monarch  partakes  in  the  joy. 


SECOND   PRIEST. 


Like  the  sun,  our  great  monarch  all  rapture  supplies, 

Both  similar  blessings  bestow : 
The  sun  with  his  splendour  illumines  the  skies, 

And  our  monarch  enlivens  below. 

Air. 

CHALDEAN   WOMAN. 

Haste,  ye  sprightly  sons  of  pleasure. 
Love  presents  the  fairest  treasure, 
Leave  all  other  joys  for  me. 

A   CHALDEAN   ATTENDANT. 

Or  rather,  love's  delights  despising, 
Haste  to  raptures  ever  rising 

Wine  shall  bless  the  brave  and  free. 


THE  CAPTIVITY  :  AN  ORATORIO.  87 

FIRST   PRIEST. 

Wine  and  beauty  thus  inviting, 
Each  to  different  joys  exciting, 
Whither  shall  my  choice  incline  ? 

SECOND   PRIEST. 

1 11  waste  no  longer  thought  in  choosing, 
But,  neither  this  nor  that  refusing, 
I'll  make  them  both  together  mine. 

FIRST   PRIEST. 

But  whence,  when  joy  should  brighten  o'er  the  land, 
This  sullen  gloom  in  Judah's  captive  band? 
Ye  sons  of  Judah,  why  the  lute  unstrung? 
Or  why  those  harps  on  yonder  willows  hung? 
Come,  take  the  lyre,  and  pour  the  strain  along, 
The  day  demands  it :  sing  us  Sion's  song, 
Dismiss  your  griefs,  and  join  our  warbling  choir, 
For  who  like  you  can  wake  the  sleeping  lyre  1 

Air. 

„»ery  moment  as  it  flows 
Some  peculiar  pleasure  owes: 
Come,  then,  providently  wise, 
Seize  the  debtor  ere  it  flies. 

SECOND    PRIEST. 

Think  not  to-morrow  can  repay 
The  debt  of  pleasure  lost  to-day : 
Alas !  to-morrow's  richest  store 
Can  but  pay  its  proper  score. 

SECOND   PROPHET. 

Chain'd  as  we  are,  the  scorn  of  all  mankind. 

To  want,  to  toil,  and  every  ill  consign'd, 

Is  this  a  time  to  bid  us  raise  the  strain, 

Or  mix  in  rites  that  Heaven  regards  with  pain  ! 


S3  THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 

No,  never!  may  this  hand  forget  each  art 
That  wakes  to  finest  joys  the  human  heart, 
Ere  I  forget  the  land  that  gave  me  birth, 
Or  join  to  sounds  profane  its  sacred  mirth  ! 

SECOND    PRIEST. 

Rebellious  slaves  !  if  soft  persuasion  fail, 
More  formidable  terrors  shall  prevail. 

FIRST   PROPHET. 

Why,  let  them  come,  one  good  remains  to  cheer — 
We  fear  the  Lord,  and  scorn  all  other  fear. 

[Exeunt    ChALDBABS. 
CHORUS   OF    ISRAELITES. 

Can  chains  or  tortures  bend  the  mind 

On  God's  supporting  breast  reclined  1 

Stand  fast,  and  let  our  tyrants  see 

That  fortitude  is  victory.  Exeunt, 


ACT  THE  SECOND. 

Israelites  and  Chaldeans,  as  be/ore. 

Air. 

first  prophet. 

O  peace,  of  mind,  angelic  guest, 

Thou  soft  companion  of  the  breast, 

Dispense  thy  balmy  store  ! 
Wing  all  our  thoughts  to  reach  the 
Till  earth,  receding  from  our  eyes, 
Shall  vanish  as  we  soar! 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

No  more.     Too  long  has  justice  been  delay'd, 
The  king's  commands  must  fully  be  obey'd ; 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 

Compliance  with  tiis  will  your  peace  secures, 
Praise  but  our  gods,  and  every  good  is  yours- 
But  if,  rebellious  to  his  high  command, 
You  spurn  the  favours  ofFer'd  from  his  hand, 
Think,  timely  think,  what  terrors  are  behind, 
Reflect,  nor  tempt  to  rage  the  royal  mind. 

Air. 
Fierce  is  the  tempest  howling 

Along  the  furrovv'd  main, 
And  fierce  the  whirlwind  rolling 

O'er  Afric's  sandy  plain  : 

But  storms  that  fly 

To  rend  the  sky, 
Every  ill  presaging, 

Less  dreadful  shew 

To  worlds  below 
Than  angry  monarchs  raging. 

1SRAEUTISH   WOMAN. 

Ah  me  !  what  angry  terrors  round  us  grow  ! 
How  shrinks  my  soul  to  meet  the  threaten'd  blo» 
Ye  prophets,  skill'd  in  Heaven's  eternal  truth, 
Forgive  my  sex's  fears,  forgive  my  youth  ! 
Ah  !  let  us  one,  one  little  hour  obey  ; 
To-morrow's  tears  may  wash  the  stain  away. 

Air. 
Fatigued  with  life,  yet  loath  to  part, 

On  hope  the  wretch  relies; 
And  every  blow  that  sinks  the  heart 

Bids  the  deluder  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  taper's  gleamy  light, 

Adorns  the  wretch's  way; 
And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night. 

Emits  a  brighter  ray. 

SECOND   rUIEST. 

Why  this  delay  ?  At  length  for  joy  prepare : 
I  read  your  looks,  and  see  compliance  there. 


88 


90 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 


Come  on,  and  bid  the  warbling  rapture  rise, 
Our  monarch's  fame  the  noblest  theme  supplies. 
Begin,  ye  captive  bands,  and  strike  the  lyre, 
The  time,  the  theme,  the  place,  and  all  conspire. 

Air. 

CHALDEAN   WOMAN. 

See  the  ruddy  morning  smiling, 
Hear  the  grove  to  bliss  beguiling ; 
Zephyrs  through  the  woodland  playing, 
Streams  along  the  valley  straying. 

FIRST   PRIEST. 

While  these  a  constant  revel  keep, 
Shall  reason  only  teach  to  weep  ? 
Hence,  intruder  !  we'll  pursue 
Nature,  a  better  guide  than  you. 


SECOND   PRIEST. 

But  hold  !  see,  foremost  of  the  captive  choir, 
The  master  prophet  grasps  his  full-toned  lyre. 
Mark  where  he  sits,  with  executing  art, 
Feels  for  each  tone,  and  speeds  it  to  the  heart . 
See,  how  prophetic  rapture  fills  his  form, 
Awful  as  clouds  that  nurse  the  growing  storm ! 
And  now  his  voice,  accordant  to  the  string, 
Prepare's  our  monarch's  victories  to  sing. 

Air. 

FIRST   PROPHET. 

From  north,  from  south,  from  east,  from 

Conspiring  nations  come : 
Tremble,  thou  vice-polluted  breast! 

Blasphemers,  all  be  dumb. 

The  tempest  gathers  all  around. 

On  Babylon  it  lies ; 
Down  with  her  !  down,  down  to  the  ground 

She  sinks,  she  groans,  she  dies. 


E2S= 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO.  91 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Down  with  her,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust, 

Before  yon  setting  sun  ; 
Serve  her  as  she  hath  served  the  just ! 

'Tis  fix'd — it  shall  be  done. 

FIRST   PRIEST. 

No  more  !  when  slaves  thus  insolent  presume, 

The  king  himself  shall  judge  and  fix  their  doom. 

Unthinking  wretches  !  have  not  you  and  all 

Beheld  our  power  in  Zedekiah's  faH  ? 

To  yonder  gloomy  dungeon  turn  your  eyes : 

See  where  dethroned  your  captive  monarch  lies, 

Deprived  of  sight,  and  rankling  in  his  chain ; 

See  where  he  mourns  his  friends  and  children  slain. 

Yet  know,  ye  slaves,  that  still  remain  behind 

More  ponderous  chains,  and  dungeons  more  confined 

CHORUS   OF   ALL. 

Arise,  all  potent  ruler,  rise, 

And  vindicate  thy  people's  cause, 

Till  every  tongue  in  every  land 
Shall  offer  up  unfeign'd  applause. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  THE  THIRD. 

FIRST   PRIEST. 

Yes,  my  companions,  Heaven's  decrees  are  pass  J, 

And  our 'fix'd  empire  shall  for  ever  last: 

In  vain  the  madd'ning  prophet  threatens  wo, 

In  vain  rebellion  aims  her  secret  blow  ; 

Still  shall  our  name  and  growing  power  be  spread, 

And  still  our  iustice  crush  the  traitor's  head. 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 

Air. 

Coeval  with  man 
Our  empire  began, 
And  never  shall  fall 
Till  ruin  shakes  all. 
When  ruin  shakes  all, 
Then  shall  Babylon  fall. 

SECOND   PROPHET. 

'Tis  thus  the  proud  triumphant  rear  the  head,-  • 
A  little  while,  and  all  their  power  is  fled. 
But,  ha !  what  means  yon  sadly  plaintive  train, 
That  onward  slowly  bends  along  the  plain] 
And  now,  behold,  to  yonder  bank  they  bear 
A  palhd  corse,  and  rest  the  body  there. 
Alas  !  too  well  mine  eyes  indignant  trace 
Thelast  remains  of  Judah's  royal  race  : 
Fall'n  is  our  king,  and  all  our'fears  are  o'er, 
Unhappy  Zedekiah  is  no  more. 

Air. 

Ye  wretches,  who  by  fortune's  hate 

In  want  and  sorrow  groan, 
Come,  ponder  his  severer  fate, 

And  learn  to  bless  your  own. 

FIRST   PHOPHET. 

Ye  vain,  whom  youth  and  pleasure  guide, 

A  while  the  bliss  suspend ; 
Like  yours,  his  life  began  in  pride, 

Like  his,  your  lives  shall  end. 

SECOND   PROPHET. 

Behold  his  wretched  corse  with  sorrow  worn, 
His  squalid  limbs  by  ponderous  fetters  torn  ; 
Those  eyeless  orbs  that  shook  with  ghastly  glare. 
Those  unbecoming  rags,  that  matted  hair  ! 
And  shall  not  Heaven  for  this  avenge  the  foe, 
Grasp  the  red  bolt,  and  lay  the  guilty  low  1 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO.  93 

How  long,  how  long,  Almighty  God  of  all. 
Shall  wrath  vindictive  threaten  ere  it  fall  ? 

Air. 

ISRAELITISH    WOMAN. 

As  panting  flies  the  hunted  hind, 
Where  brooks  refreshing  stray  ; 

And  rivers  through  the  valley  wind, 
That  stop  the  hunter's  way  : 

Thus  we,  O  Lord,  alike  distress'd, 

For  streams  of  mercy  lon°- ; 
Streams  which  cheer  the  sore  oppress'd, 

And  overwhelm  the  strono- 

O 
FIRST    PROPHET. 

But  whence  that  shout?     Good  heavens!     Amaze- 
ment all! 
See  yonder  tower  just  nodding  to  the  fall : 
Behold,  an  army  covers  all  the  ground, 
Tis  Cyrus  here  that  pours  destruction  round: 
And  now,  behold,  the  battlements  recline— 
O  God  of  hosts,  the  victory  is  thine  ! 

CHORUS   OP   CAPTIVES. 

Down  with  them,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust; 
Thy  vengeance  be  begun  ; 
•     Serve  them  as  they  have  served  the  just 
And  let  thy  will  be  done.  ' 

FIRST   PRIEST. 

All,  all  is  lost !  The  Syrian  army  fails, 
Cyrus,  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  prevails. 

I  he  ruin  smokes,  the  torrent  pours  alon<* 

How  low  the  proud,  how  feeble  are  the  strong! 
Save  us,  O  Lord  !  to  Thee,  though  late,  we  pray  ; 
And  give  repentance  but  an  hour's  delay. 

•  2C 


94 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 


Air. 

FIRST   AND   SECOND   PRIEST. 

O  happy, who  in  happy  hour 
To  God  their  praise  bestow, 

And  own  his  all-consuming  power 
Before  they  feel  the  blow  ! 

SECOND   PROPHET. 

Now,  now's  our  time !  ye  wretches,  bold  and  blind, 

Brave  but  to  God,  and  cowards  to  mankind, 

Ye  seek  in  vain  the  Lord  unsought  before, 

Your  wealth,  your  lives,  your  kingdom,  are  no  more  ! 

Air. 

O  Lucifer,  thou  son  of  morn, 

Of  Heaven  alike  and  man  the  foe, — 

Heaven,  men,  and  all, 

Now  press  thy  fall, 
And  sink  thee  lowebt  of  the  low. 


FIRST   PROPHET. 

O  Babylon,  how  art  thou  fallen  ! 
Thy  fall  more  dreadful  from  delay  ! 

Thy  streets  forlorn 

To  wilds  shall  turn, 
Where  toads  shall  pant  and  vultures  prey. 

SECOND   PROPHET. 

Such  be  her  fate.     But  hark !  how  from  afar 
The  clarion's  note  proclaims  the  finish'd  war ! 
Our  great  restorer,  Cyrus,  is  at  hand, 
And  this  way  leads  his  formidable  band. 
Give,  give  your  songs  of  Sion  to  the  wind, 
And  hail  the  benefactor  of  mankind  : 
He  comes,  pursuant  to  divine  decree, 
To  chain  the  strong,  and  set  the  captive  free. 


THE  CAPTIVIi  1  .  AN  ORATORIO.  95 


CHORUS   OF    YOUTHS. 


Rise  to  transports  past  expressing, 
Sweeter  by  remember'd  woes; 

Cyrus  comes,  our  wrongs  redressing, 
Comes  to  give  the  world  repose. 


CHORUS   OF   VIRGINS. 


Cyrus  comes,  the  world  redressing, 

Love  and  pleasure  in  his  train ; 
Comes  to  heighten  every  blessing, 

Comes  to  soften  everv  pain. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Hail  to  him  with  mercy  reigning, 

Skill'd  in  every  peaceful  art ; 
Who,  from  bonds  our  limbs  unchaining, 

Only  binds  the  willing  heart. 

THE    LAST   CHORUS. 

But  chief  to  thee,  our  God,  defender,  friend, 
Let  praise  be  given  to  all  eternity ; 

O  Thou,  without  beginning,  without  end, 
Let  us  and  all  begin  and  end  in  Thee  ' 


LINKS  ATTRIBUTED  TO  DR.  GOLDSMITH, 

INSERTED   IN   THE    MORNING  CHRONICLR  OF  APRIL  3,    1S00. 

E'en  have  you  seen,  bathed  in  the  morning  dew, 
The  budding  rose  its  infant  bloom  display  ; 

When  first  its  virgin  tints  unfold  to  view, 

It  shrinks,  and  scarcely  trusts  the  blaze  of  day : 

So  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sweet  she  came, 

Youth's  damask  glow  just  dawning  on  her  cheek  ; 
I  gazed,  I  sigh'd,  I  caught  the  tender  flame, 

Felt  the  fond  pang,  and  droop'd  with  passion  weak 


m 


THE 


GOOD-NATURED    MAN: 

A   COMEDY. 


This  admirable  comedy  was  represented,  for  the  first  time,  at  Covent 
Garden,  January  29,  1768.  It  kept  possession  of  the  sta^e  for  nine 
nights,  but  was  considered  by  the  author's  friends  not  to  have  met  with 
all  the  success  it  deserved.  Dr.  Johnson  said  it  was  the  best  comedy 
which  had  appeared  since  '  The  Provoked  Husband,1  and  Burke  esti- 
mated its  merits  still  higher. 


PREFACE. 

When  I  undertook  to  write  a  corned}',  I  confess  I 
was  strongly  prepossessed  in  favour  of  the  poets  of  the 
last  age,  and  strove  to  imitate  them.  The  term  genteel 
comedy  was  then  unknown  amongst  us,  and  little  more 
was  desired  by  an  audience  than  nature  and  humour, 
in  whatever  walks  of  life  they  were  most  conspicuous. 
The  author  of  the  following  scenes  never  imagined  that 
more  would  be  expected  of  him,  and  therefore  to  deli- 
neate character  has  been  his  principal  aim.  Those 
who  know  any  thing  of  composition,  are  sensible,  that 
in  pursuing  humour,  it  will  sometimes  lead  us  into  the 
recesses  of  the  mean  :  I  was  even  tempted  to  look  for 
it  in  the  master  of  a  spunging-house  ;  but,  in  deference 
to  the  public  taste — grown  of  late,  perhaps,  too  deli- 
cate— the  scene  of  the  bailiffs  was  retrenched  in  the 
representation.  In  deference  also  to  the  judgment  of 
a  few  friends,  who  think  in  a  particular  way,  the 
scene  is  here  restored.  The  author  submits  it  to  the 
reader  in  his  closet ;  and  hopes  that  too  much  refine- 
ment will  not  banish  humour  and  character  from  ours, 
as  it  has  already  done  from  the  French  theatre. 
Indeed,  the  French  comedy  is  now  become  so  very 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAM.  97 

elevate;!  and  sentimental,  that  it  has  not  only  banished 
humour  and  Moliere  from  the  stage,  but  it  has  banished 
ill  spectators  too. 

Upon  the  whole,  the  author  returns  nis  thanks  to 
the  public,  for  the  favourable  reception  which  the 
Good-N'Hured  Man  has  met  with  ;  and  to  Mr.  Colman 
in  particular,  for  his  kindness  to  it.  It  may  not  also 
be  improper  to  assure  any  who  shall  hereafter  write 
for  the  theatre,  that  merit,  or  supposed  merit,  will  ever 
be  a  sufficient  passport  to  his  protection. 


DRAMATIS     PERSON/E. 

MEN. 

Mr.  Honeytvood. 

Croaker. 

Lofty. 

Sir  William  Honeywood. 

Leontinc. 

Jarvis. 

Sutler. 

Bailiff. 

Dnhardieu. 

Postboy. 

WOMEN. 

Miss  Richland. 

Olivia. 

Mrs.  Croaker. 

Garnet. 

Landlady. 

Scene — London 


93 


TUB 


GOOD-NATURED  MAN 


PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN    BY    DR.   JOHNSON,  SPOKEN    BY    MR.    BENS  LEY. 

Pkess'd  by  the  load  of  life,  the  weary  minii 

Surveys  the  general  toil  of  human  kind, 

With  cool  submission  joins  the  lab'ring  train, 

And  social  sorrow  loses  half  its  pain  : 

Our  anxious  bard,  without  complaint,  may  share 

This  bustling  season's  epidemic  care, 

Like  Caesar's  pilot,  dignified  by  fate, 

Toss'd  in  one  common  storm  with  all  the  great ; 

Distress'd  alike,  the  statesmen  and  the  wit, 

When  one  a  Borough  courts,  and  one  the  Pit. 

The  busy  candidates  for  power  and  fame 

Have  hopes,  and  fears,  and  wishes,  just  the  same  : 

Disabled  both  to  combat  or  to  fly, 

Must  hear  all  taunts,  and  hear  without  reply ; 

Uncheck'd,  on  both  loud  rabbles  vent  wheir  rage, 

As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  a  cage. 

Th'  offended  burgess  hoards  his  angry  tale, 

For  that  blest  year  when  all  that  vote  may  rail ; 

Their  schemes  of  spite  the  poet's  foes  dismiss, 

Till  that  glad  night  when  all  that  hate  may  hiss. 

'  This  day,  the  powder'd  curls  and  golden  coat,' 

Says  swelling  Crispin,  '  begg'd  a  cobbler's  vote.' 

'  This  night  our  wit,'  the  pert  apprentice  cries, 

'  Lies  at  my  feet — I  hiss  him,  and  he  dies.' 

The  great,  'tis  true,  can  charm  th'  electing  tribes 

The  bard  may  supplicate,  but  cannot  bribe. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  99 

Yet,  judged  by  those  whose  voices  ne'er  were  sold, 
He  feels  no  want  of  ill-persuading  gold  ; 
But  confident  of  praise  if  praise  be  due, 
Trusts  without  fear  to  merit  and  to  you. 


•  ACT     FIRST. 

Scene  —  an  apartment  in  young  honeywood j  house. 
Enter  Sir  William  Honeywood  and  Jarvis. 

Sir  William,  Good  Jarvis,  make  no  apologies  for 
this  honest  bluntness.  Fidelity,  like  yours,  is  the  best 
excuse  for  every  freedom. 

Jarvis.  I  can't  help  being  blunt,  and  being  very 
angry  too,  when  I  hear  you  talk  of  disinheriting  so 
good,  so  worthy  a  young  gentleman  as  your  nephew, 
my  master.    .All  the  world  loves  him. 

Sir  William.  Say  rather,  that  lie  loves  all  the  world  ; 
that  is  his  fault. 

Jarvis-  I  am  sure  there  is  no  part  of  it  more  dear 
to  him  than  you  are,  though  he  has  not  seen  you  since 
he  was  a  child. 

Sir  William.  What  signifies  his  affection  to  me? 
or  how  can  I  be  proud  of  a  place  in  a  heart,  where 
every  sharper  and  coxcomb  find  an  easy  entrance  ? 

Jarvis.  I  grant  you  that  he  is  rather  too  good- 
natured  ;  that  he's  too  much  every  man's  man  ;  that 
he  laughs  this  minute  with  one,  and  cries  the  next 
with  another:  but  whose  instructions  may  he  thank 
for  all  this' 

Sir  William.  Not  mine,  sure.  My  letters  to  him 
during  my  employment  in  Italy,  taught  him  only  that 
philosophy  which  might  prevent,  not  defend,  his  errors. 

Jarvis.  Faith,  begging  your  honour's  pardon.  I'm 
sorry  they  taught  Inn,  any  philosophy  at  all  :  it  has 
only  served  to  spoil  him.  "  'l'l,is  same  philosophy  is  a 
good  horse  in  a  stable,  but  an  arrant  jade  on  a  jour- 
ney.     For  my  own  part,  whenever  I  hi  at  him  men- 


100  THE  GOOD-NATUKED  MA>i. 

tion  the  name  on't,  I'm  always  sure  he's  going  to  play 
the  fool. 

Sir  William.  Don't  let  us  ascribe  his  faults  to  his 
philosophy,  I  entreat  you.  No,  Jarvis,  his  good- 
nature arises  rather  from  his  fears  of  offending  the  im- 
portunate, than  his  desire  of  making  the  deserving 
happy. 

Jarvis.  What  it  arises  from,  I  don't  know;  bfft,  to 
be  sure,  every  body  has  it  that  asks  it. 

Sir  William.  Ay,  or  that  does  not  ask  it.  I  have 
been  now  for  some  time  a  concealed  spectator  of  his 
follies,  and  find  them  as  boundless  as  his  dissipation. 

Jarvis.  And  yet,  faith,  he  has  some  fine  name  or 
other  for  them  all.  He  calls  his  extravagance,  gene- 
rosity ;  and  his  trusting  every  body,  universal  benevo- 
lence. It  was  but  last  week  he  went  security  for  a 
fellow  whose  face  he  scarce  knew,  and  that  he  called 
an  act  of  exalted  mu — mu — munificence  ;  ay,  that 
was  the  name  he  gave  it. 

Sir  William.  And  upon  that  I  proceed,  as  my  last 
effort,  though  with  very  little  hopes,  to  reclaim  him. 
That  very  fellow  has  just  absconded,  and  1  have  taken 
up  the  security.  Now,  my  intention  is  to  involve  him 
in  fictitious  distress,  before  he  has  plunged  himself  into 
real  calamity:  to  arrest  him  for  that  very  debt,  to  clap 
an  officer  upon  him,  and  then  let  him  see  which  of  his 
friends  will  come  to  his  relief. 

Jarvis.  Well,  if  1  could  but  any  way  see  him 
thoroughly  vexed,  every  groan  of  his  would  be  music 
to  me  ;  yet,  faith,  1  believe  it  impossible.  1  have  tried 
to  fret  him  myself  every  morning  these  three  years ; 
but  instead  of  being  angry,  he  sits  as  calmly  to  hear 
me  scold,  as  he  does  to  h;s  hair-dresser. 

Sir  William.  We  must  try  him  once  more,  however, 
and  I'll  go  this  instant  to  put  my  scheme  into  execu- 
tion :  and  1  don't  despair  of  succeeding,  as,  by  your 
means,  I  can  have  frequent  opportunities  of  beinc 
about  him  without  being  known.  What  a  pity  it  is, 
Jarvis,  that  any  man's  good-will  to  others  should  pro- 
duce so  much  neglect  of  himself,  as  to  require  cor- 


iVHE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  101 

rection  !  Yet  we  must  touch  his  weaknesses  with  a 
delicate  hand.  There  are  some  faults  so  nearly  allied 
to  excellence,  that  we  can  scarce  weed  out  the  vice 
without  eradicating  the  virtue.  [Exit. 

Jarvis.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  Sir  William  Honey  wood. 
It  is  not  without  reason,  that  the  world  allows  thee  to 
be  the  best  of  men.  But  here  comes  his  hopeful 
nephew — the  strange,  good-natured,  foolish,  open- 
hearted — And  yet,  all  his  faults  are  such,  that  one 
loves  him  still  the  better  for  them. 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeywood.  Well,  Jarvis,  what  messages  from  my 
friends  this  mornino-? 

Jarvis.   You  have  no  friends. 

Honeywood.  Well,  from  my  acquaintance  then? 

Jarvis.  (Pulling  out  bills.)  A  few  of  our  usual  cards 
of  compliment,  that's  all.  This  bill  from  your  tailor; 
this  from  your  mercer;  and  this  from  the  little  broker 
in  Crooked-lane.  He  says  he  has  been  at  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  to  gel  back  the  money  you  borrowed. 

Honeywood.  That  I  don't  know;  but  I  am  sure  we 
were  at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  getting  him  to  lend  it. 

Jarvis.   lie  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeywood.  Then  he  has  lost  a  very  good  thing. 

Jarvis.  There's  that  ten  guineas  you  were  sending 
to  the  poor  gentleman  and  his  children  in  the  fleet. 
I  believe  that  would  stop  his  mouth  for  a  while  at 

Honeywood.  Ay,  Jarvis,  but  what  will  fill  their 
mouths  in  the  mean  time  ?  Must  I  be  cruel,  because 
he  happens  to  be  importunate  ;  and,  to  relieve  his 
avarice,  leave  them  to  insupportable  distress? 

Jarvis.  'Sdeath  !  sir,  the  question  now  is  how  to  re- 
lieve  yourself — yourself.  Haven't  I  reason  to  be  out 
ot  my  senses,  when  1  see  things  going  at  sixes  and 
sev<  us > 

Honeywood.  Whatever  reason  you  may  have  for 
being  out  of  your  senses,  1  hope  you'll  allow  that  I'm 
not  quite  unreasonable  for  continuing  in  mine. 


i'J2  THE  GOOD-NATl  RED  MAN. 

Jarvis.  You  are  the  only  man  alive  in  your  present 
situation  «that  could  do  so.  Every  thing-  upon  the 
waste.  There's  Miss  Richland  and  her  fine  fortune 
gone  already,  and  upon  the  point  of  being  given  to 
your  rival. 

Honeywood.  I'm  no  man's  rival. 

Jarvis.  Your  uncle  in  Italy  preparing  to  disinherit 
you  ;  your  own  fortune  almost  spent ;  and  nothing  but 
pressing  creditors,  false  friends,  and  a  pack  of  drunken 
servants  that  your  kindness  has  made  unfit  for  any 
other  family. 

Honeywood.  Then  they  have  the  more  occasion  for 
being:  in  mine. 

Jarvis.  Soh  !  What  will  you  have  done  with  him 
that  I  caught  stealing  your  plate  in  the  pantry  ]  la 
the  fact — I  caught  him  in  the  fact. 

Honeywood.  In  the  fact?  If  so,  I  really  think  that 
we  should  pay  him  his  wages,  and  turn  him  off. 

Jarvis.  He  shall  be  turned  off  at  Tyburn,  the  dog  • 
we'll  hang  him,  if  it  be  only  to  frighten  the  rest  of  the 
family. 

Honeywood.  No,  Jarvis  :  it's  enough  that  we  have 
lost  what  he  has  stolen  ;  let  us  not  add  to  it  the  loss  of 
a  fellow-creature  ! 

Jarvis.  Very  fine  !  well,  here  was  the  footman  just 
now,  to  complain  of  the  butler  :  he  says  he  does  most 
work,  and  ought  to  have  most  wages. 

Honeywood.  That's  but  just ;  though  perhaps  here 
comes  the  butler  to  complain  of  the  footman. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  it's  the  way  with  them  all,  from  the 
scullion  to  the  privy-councillor.  If  they  have  a  bad 
master,  they  keep  quarrelling  with  him  ;  if  they  have 
a  good  master,  they  keep  quarrelling  with  one  another. 

Enter  Butler,  drunk. 

Butler.  Sir,  I'll  not  stay  in  the  family  with  Jona- 
than ;  you  must  part  with  him,  or  part  with  me,  that's 
the  ex — ex — exposition  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Honeywood.  Full  and  explicit  enough.  But  what's 
his  fault,  good  Phihp  ? 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  103 

Butler.  Sir,  he's  given  to  drinking-,  sir,  and  I  shall 
have  my  morals  corrupted  by  keeping  such  company. 

lloncywood.  Ha!  ha!  he  has  such  a  diverting  way — 

Jarvis.   Oh,  quite  amusing. 

Bullcr.  I  find  my  wine's  a-going,  sir  ;  and  liquors 
don't  go  without  mouths,  sir — 1  hate  a  drunkard,  sir. 

lloncywood.  Well,  well,  Philip,  I'll  hear  you  upon 
that  another  time  ;  so  go  to  bed  now. 

Jarvis.  To  bed  !  let  him  go  to  the  devil. 

Butler,  lieggingyour  honour's  pardon,  and  begging 
your  pardon,  master  Jarvis,  I'll  not  go  to  bed  nor  to 
the  devil  neither.  I  have  enough  to  do  to  mind  my 
cellar.  I  forgot,  your  honour,  Mr.  Croaker  is  below. 
I  came  on  purpose  to  tell  you. 

lloncywood.  Why  didn't  you  shew  him  up,  block- 
he  ill  ! 

Butler.  Shew  him  up,  sir?  With  all  my  heart,  sir. 
Up  or  down,  all's  one  to  me.  [Exit. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  we  have  one  or  other  of  thatlamily  in  this 

(rum  morning  till  night.     He  comes  on  the  old 

affair,  1  suppose.     The  match  between  his  son,  that's 

just  returned    from   Paris,   and   Miss   llichland,  the 

lady  he's  guardian  to. 

Honeuwood.  Perhaps  so.  Mr.  Cioaker,  knowing 
my  friendship  for  the  young  lady,  has  got  it  into  his 
head  that  1  can  persuade  her  to  what  I  please. 

Jarvis.  Ah!  if  you  loved  yourself  but  half  as  well 
as  she  loves  you,  we  should  soon  see  a  marriage  that 
would  set  all  things  to  rights  again. 

lloncywood.  Love  me  !  Sure,  Jarvis,  you  dream. 
No,  no  ;  her  intimacy  with  me  never  amounted  to 
more  than  friendship — mere  friendship.  That  she  is 
the  most  lovely  woman  that  ever  wanned  the  human 
heart  with  desire,  1  own  :  but  never  let  me  harbour  a 
:,t  of  making  her  unhappy,  by  a  connexion  with 
one  so  unworthy  her  merits  as  1  am.  No,  Jarvis,  it 
shall  be  my  study  to  sen'e  her,  even  in  spite  of  my 
wishes ;  and  to  secure  her  happiness,  though  it  destroys 
iwn. 

Jarvis.  Was  ever  the  like  1  1  want  patience. 


101  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

Honeywood.  Besides,  Jarvis,  though  I  could  n'itr»i7i 
Miss  Richland's  consent,  do  you  think  I  could  succeed 
with  her  guardian,  or  Mrs.  Croaker,  his  wife  1  who, 
thoug-h  both  very  fine  in  their  way,  are  yet  a  little 
opposite  in  their  dispositions,  you  know. 

Jarvis.  Opposite  enough,  Heaven  knows  !  the  very 
reverse  of  each  other  :  she  all  laugh,  and  no  joke  ;  he 
always  complaining,  and  never  sorrowful — a  fretful 
poor  soul,  that  has  a  new  distress  for  every  hour  in  the 
four-and-twenty — 

Honeywood.  Hush,  hush  !  he's  coming  up,  he'll  hear 
you. 

Jarvis.  One  whose  voice  is  a  passing  bell — 

Honeywood.  Well,  well ;  go,  do. 

Jarvis.  A  raven  that  bodes  nothing  but  mischief — 
a  coffin  and  cross-bones — a  bundle  of  rue — a  sprig  of 
deadly  nightshade  —  a  —  (Honeywood,  stopping  his 
mouth,  at  last  pushes  him  off.)  [Exit  Jai'vis. 

Honeywood.  I  must  own  mv  old  monitor  is  not  en- 
tirely wrong.  There  is  something  in  my  friend  Croaker's 
conversation  that  quite  depresses  me.  His  very  mirth 
is  an  antidote,  to  all  gaiety,  and  his  appearance  has  a 
stronger  effect  on  my  spirits  than  an  undertaker's  shop 
— Mr.  Croaker,  this  is  such  a  satisfaction — 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  A  pleasant  morning  to  Mr.  Honeywood, 
and  many  of  them.  How  is  this  1  you  look  most  shock- 
ingly to-day,  my  dear  friend.  I  hope  this  weather  does 
not  affec'  ~  jur  spirits.  To  be  sure,  if  this  weather  con- 
tinues— I  say  nothing ;  but  God  send  we  be  all  better 
this  day  three  months  ! 

Honeywood.  I  heartily  concur  in  the  wish,  though, 
I  own,  not  in  your  apprehensions. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies  what 
weather  we  have  in  a  country  going  to  ruin  like  ours? 
taxes  rising  and  trade  falling :  money  flying  out  of 
the  kingdom,  and  Jesuits  swarming  into  it.  I  know, 
at  this  time,  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty-seven 
Jesuits  between  during  Cross  and  Temple  Bar. 


£r= 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  105 

Honeywood.  The  Jesuits  will  scarce  pervert  you  or 
me,  I  should  hope. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies 
whom  they  pervert,  ir^a  country  that  has  scarce  any 
religion  to  lose?  I'm  only  afraid  for  our  wives  and 
daughters. 

Hoiieywood.  I  have  no  apprehensions  for  the  ladies, 
I  assure  you. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies 
whether  they  be  perverted  or  no!  The  women  in  my 
time  were  good  for  something.  I  have  seen  a  lady 
drest  from  top  to  toe  in  her  own  manufactures  for- 
merly :  but  now-a-days,  the  devil  a  thing  of  their  own 
manufacture's  about  them,  except  their  faces. 

Honeywood.  But,  however  these  faults  may  be 
practised  abroad,  you  don't  find  them  at  home,  either 
witii  Mrs.  Croaker,  Olivia,  or  Miss  Richland? 

Croaker.  The  best  of  them  will  never  be  canonized 
for  a  saint  when  she's  dead. — By  the  by,  my  dear 
friend,  1  don't  find  this  match  between  Miss  Richland 
and  my  son  much  relished,  either  by  one  side  or 
t'other. 

Honeywood.  I  thought  otherwise. 

Croaker.  Ah  !  Mr.  Honeywood,  a  little  of  your 
fine  serious  advice  to  the  young  lady  might  go  far: 
I  know  she  lias  a  very  exalted  opinion  of  your  un- 
derstanding. 

Honeywood.  But  would  not  that  be  usurping  an 
authority,  that  more  properly  belongs  to  yourself! 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  you  know  but  little  of  my 
authority  at  home.  People  think,  indeed,  because 
they  see  me  come  out  in  the  morning  thus,  with  a 
int  face,  and  to  make  my  friends  merry,  that 
all's  well  within.  But  I  have  cares  that  would  break 
t  of  stone.  My  wife  lias  so  encroached  upon 
every  one  of  my  privileges,  that  I'm  n>w  no  more 
than  a  mere  lodger  in  my  own  house. 

Honeywood.  But  a  little  spirit  exerted  on  your  side 
might  perhaps  restore  your  authority. 

Croaker.   No,  though  1  had  the  spirit  of  a  lion!  I 
F2 


106  THE  aOOD-NATURED   V\N. 

do  rouse  sometimes  ;  but  what  then'!  always  haggling 
and  haggling.  A  man  is  tired  of  getting  the  better, 
before  his  wife  is  tired  of  losing  the  victory. 

Honeywood.  It's  a  melandioly  consideration,  in- 
deed, that  our  chief  comforts  often  produce  our  great- 
est anxieties,  and  that  an  increase  of  our  possessions  is 
but  an  inlet  to  new  disquietudes. 

Croaker.  Ah  !  my  dear  friend,  these  were  the  very 
words  of  poor  Dick  Doleful  to  me,  not  a  week  before 
he  made  away  with  himself.  Indeed,  Mr.  Honey- 
wood,  I  never  see  you  but  you  put  me  in  mind  of 
poor  Dick.  Ah  !  there  was  merit  neglected  for  you  ; 
and  so  true  a  friend  !  we  loved  each  other  for  thirty 
years,  and  yet  he  never  asked  me  to  lend  him  a  single 
farthing. 

Honeywood.  Pray  what  could  induce  him  to  com- 
mit so  rash  an  action  at  last? 

Croaker.  I  don't  know :  some  people  were  mali- 
cious enough  to  say  it  was  keeping  company  with  me  ; 
because  we  used  to  meet  now  and  then,  and  open  our 
hearts  to  each  other.  To  be  sure,  I  loved  to  hear 
him  talk,  and  he  loved  to  hear  me  talk  ;  poor  dear 
Dick  !  He  used  to  say  that  Croaker  rhymed  to  joker  ; 
and  so  we  used  to  laugh — Poor  Dick  !    [Going  to  cry. 

Honeywood.  His  fate  affects  me. 

Croaker.  Ah  !  he  grew  sick  of  this  miserable  life, 
where  we  do  nothing  but  eat  and  grow  hungry,  dress 
and  undress,  get  up  and  lie  down  ;  while  reason,  that 
should  watch  like  a  nurse  by  our  side,  falls  as  fast 
asleep  as  we  do. 

Honeywood.  To  say  a  truth,  if  we  compare  that 
part  of  life  which  is  to  come,  by  that  which  we  have 
past,  the  prospect  is  hideous. 

Croaker.  Life,  at  the  greatest  and  best,  is  but  a 
froward  child,  that  must  be  humoured  and  coaxed  a 
little  till  it  falls  asleep,  and  then  all  the  care  is  over. 

Honeywiwd.  Very  true,  sir,  nothing  can  exceed  the 
vanity  of  our  existence,  but  the  folly  of  our  pursuits. 
We  wept  when  we  came  in-to  the  world,  and  everv 
day  tells  us  why. 


THE  GOOD  NATUIIED  MAN.  107 

Croaker.  Ah !  my  dear  friend,  it  is  a  perfect  satis- 
faction to  be  miserable  with  you.  My  son  Leontine 
shan't  lose  the  benefit  of  such  fine  conversation.  I'll 
just  step  home  for  him.  I  am  willing  to  shew  him 
so  mucji  seriousness  in  one  scarce  older  than  himself. 
And  what  if  I  bring  my  last  letter  to  the  Gazetteer,  on 
the  increase  and  progress  of  earthquakes?  It  will 
amuse  us,  I  promise  you.  I  there  prove  how  the  late 
earthquake  is  coming  round  to  pay  us  another  visit — 
from  London  to  Lisbon — from  Lisbon  to  the  Canary 
Islands — from  the  Canary  Islands  to  Palmyra — from 
Palmyra  to  Constantinople,  and  so  from  Constanti- 
nople back  to  London  again.  [Exit. 

Honey  wood.  Poor  Croaker!  his  situation  deserves 
the  utmost  pity-  1  shall  scarce  recover  my  spirits 
these  three  days.  Sure,  to  live  upon  such  terms,  is 
worse  than  death  itself.  And  yet,  when  I  consider 
my  own  situation — a  broken  fortune,  a  hopeless  pas- 
sion, friends  in  distress,  the  wish,  but  not  the  power 
to  serve  them ■  [Pausing  and  sighing. 

Enter  Butler. 

Butler.  More  company  below,  sir ;  Mrs.  Croaker 
and  Miss  Richland ;  shall  I  s-hew  them  up? — but 
they're  shewing  up  themselves.  [Exit. 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker  and  Miss  lUchland.  • 

Mist  Richland.  You're  always  in  such  spirits. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  We  have  just  come,  my  dear  Iloney- 
wood,  from  the  auction.  There  was  the  old  deaf 
dowager,  as  usual,  bidding  like  a  fury  against  herself. 
And  then  so  curious  in  antiquities  !  herself,  the  most 
genuine  piece  of  antiquity  in  the  whole  collection. 

Honeyuood.  Excuse  me,  ladies,  if  some  uneasiness 
from  friendship  makes  me  unfit  to  share  in  this  good 
humour:   I  know  you'll  pardon  me. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  I  vow  he  seems  as  melancholy  as  if 
he  had  taken  a  dose  of  my  husband  this  morning. 
Well,  if  Richland  here  can  pardon  you,  I  must. 


10S  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

Miss  Richland.  You  would  seem  to  insinuate, 
madam,  that  I  have  particular  reasons  for  bein°  dis- 
posed to  refuse  it. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Whatever  I  insinuate,  my  dear, 
don't  be  so  ready  to  wish  an  explanation. 

Miss  Richland.  I  own  I  should  be  sorry  Mr. 
Honey  wood's  long  friendship  and  mine  should  be  mis- 
understood. 

Honeywood.  There's  no  answering  for  others,  ma- 
dam. But  I  hope  you'll  never  find  me  presuming  to 
offer  more  than  the  most  delicate  friendship  may  rea- 
dily allow. 

Miss  Richland.  And  I  shall  be  prouder  of  such  a 
tribute  from  you,  than  the  most  passionate  professions 
from  others. 

Honeywood.  My  own  sentiments,  madam  :  friend- 
ship is  a  disinterested  commerce  between  equals  ;  love, 
an  abject  intercourse  between  tyrants  and  slaves. 

Miss  Richland.  And  without  a  compliment,  I  know 
none  more  disinterested,  or  more  capable  of  friendship, 
than  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And,  indeed,  I  know  nobody  that 
has  more  friends,  at  least  among  the  ladies.  Miss 
Fruzz,  Miss  Oddbody,  and  Miss  Winterbottom,  praise 
him  in  all  companies.  As  for  Miss  Biddy  Bundle, 
she's  his  professed  admirer. 
4$  Miss  Richland.  Indeed !  an  admirer ! — I  did  not 
know,  sir,  you  were  such  a  favourite  there.  But  is 
she  seriously  so  handsome  ]  Is  she  the  mightv  thing 
talked  of] 

Honeywood.  The  town,  madam,  seldom  begins  to 
praise  a  lady's  beauty,  till  she's  beginning  to  lose  it. 

[Smiling. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  she's  resolved  never  to  lose  it,  it 
seems.  For  as  her  natural  face  decays,  her  skill  im- 
proves in  making  the  artificial  one.  Well,  nothing 
diverts  me  more  than  one  of  those  fine,  old,  dressy 
things,  who  thinks  to  conceal  her  age  by  every  where 
exposing  her  person  ;  sticking  herself  up  in  the  front 
of  a  side-box  ;  trailing  through  a  minuet  at  Almack's . 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  109 

and  then,  in  the  public  gardens — looking',  for  all  the 
world,  like  one  of  the  painted  ruins  of  the  place. 

'  Honeywood.  Every  age  has  its  admirers,  ladies. 
While  you,  perhaps,  are  trading  among  the  warmer 
climates  of  youth,  there  ought  to  be  some  to  carry  on 
a  useful  commerce  in  the  frozen  latitudes  beyond 
fifty. 

Miss  Tlichland.  But,  then,  the  mortifications  they 
must  suffer,  before  they  can  be  fitted  out  for  traffic. 
I  have  seen  one  of  them  fret  a  whole  morning  at  her 
hair-dresser,  when  all  the  fault  was  her  face. 

Honeywood.  And  yet,  I'll  engage,  has  carried  that 
face  at  last  to  a  very  good  market.  This  good-na- 
tured town,  madam,  has  husbands,  like  spectacles,  to 
fit  every  age  from  fifteen  to  fourscore. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Well,  you're  a  dear  good-natured 
creature.  But  you  know  you're  engaged  with  us  this 
morning  upon  a  strolling  party.  I  want  to  shew 
Olivia  the  town,  and  the  things  :  I  believe  I  shall 
have  business  for  you  the  whole  day. 

Honeywood.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  an  ap- 
pointment with  Mr.  Croaker,  which  it  is  impossible  to 
put  off. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What!  with  my  husband?  then  I'm 
resolved  to  take  no  refusal.  Nay,  I  protest  you  must. 
You  know  I  never  laugh  so  much  as  with  you. 

Honeywood.  Why,  if  I  must,  I  must.  I'll  swear 
you  have  put  me  into  such  spirits.  Well,  do  you 
find  jest,  and  I'll  find  laugh,  I  promise  you.  We'll 
wait  for  the  chariot  in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Lconthie  and  Olivia. 

Leontine.  There  they  go,  thoughtless  and  happy. 
My  dearest  Olivia,  what  would  I  give  to  see  you 
ratable  of  sharing  in  their  amusements,  and  as  cheer- 
ful as  they  are ! 

Olivia.  How,  my  Leontine,  how  can  I  be  cheerful, 
when  I  have  so  many  terrors  to  oppress  me  1  The 
fear  of  being  detected  by  this  family,  and  the  appre- 


HO  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

hensions  of  a  censuring  world,  when  I  must  be  de- 
tected  


L&mtine.  The  world,  my  love !  what  can  it  say  ? 
At  worst  it  can  only  say,  that,  being-  compelled  by  a 
mercenary  guardian  to  embrace  a  life  you  disliked, 
you  for.Tied  a  resolution  of  flying  with  the  man  of 
your  choice ;  that  you  confided  iu  his  honour,  and 
took  refuge  in  my  father's  house, — the  only  one 
where  yours  could  remain  without  censure. 

Olivia.  But  censider,  Leontine,  your  disobedience 
and  my  indiscretion  ;  your  being  sent  to  France  to 
bring  home  a  sister,  and,  instead  of  a  sister,  bringing 
home 

Leontine.  One  dearer  than  a  thousand  sisters.  One 
that  I  am  convinced  will  be  equally  dear  to  the  rest 
of  the  family,  when  she  comes  to  be  known. 

OUvia.  And  that,  I  fear,  will  shortly  be. 

Leontine.  Impossible,  ti'll  we  ourselves  think  proper 
to  make  the  discovery.  My  sister,  you  know,  has 
been  with  her  aunt,  at  Lyons,  since  she  was  a  child, 
and  you  find  every  creature  in  the  family  takes  you 
for  her. 

Olivia.  But  mayn't  she  write,  mayn't  her  aunt 
write-? 

Leontine.  Her  aunt  scarce  ever  writes,  and  all  my 
sister's  letters  are  directed  to  me. 

OVvia.  But  won't  your  refu-ing  3Iiss  Richland, 
for  whom  you  know  the  old  gentleman  intends  you, 
create  a  suspicion  ? 

Leant  ne.  There,  there's  my  master-stroke.  I  have 
resolved  not  to  refuse  her ;  nay,  an  hour  hence  I 
have  consented  to  go  with  my  father  to  make  her 
an  offer  of  my  heart  and  fortune. 

OUvia.  Your  heart  and  fortune  ! 

Leontine.  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dearest.  Can 
Olivia  think  so  meanly  of  my  honour,  or  my  love,  as 
to  suppose  I  could  ever  hope  for  happiness  from  any 
but  her?  No,  my  Olivia,  neither  the  force,  nor,  per- 
mit me  to  add,  the  delicacy  of  mv  passion,  leave  anv 
room  to  suspect  me.      I  only  oifcr  Miss   Richland  a 


THii  G00D-MATUK12D  MAX  111 

heart  I  am  convinced  she  will  refuse  ;  as  I  am  con- 
fident, that,  without  knowing  it,  her  affections  are 
fixed  upon  Mr.  Honey  wood. 

Olivia.  Mr.  Honeywood  !  You'll  excuse  my  ap- 
prehensions ;  but  when  your  merits  come  to  be  put 
in  the  balance 

Leontinc.  You  view  them  with  too  much  partiality. 
However,  by  making  this  offer,  I  shew  a  seeming 
compliance  with  my  father's  command  ;  and  perhaps, 
upon  her  refusal,  1  may  have  his  consent  to  choose 
for  myself. 

Olivia.  Well,  I  submit.  And  yet,  my  Leontine,  I 
own,  I  shall  envy  her  even  your  pretended  addresses. 
I  consider  every  look,  every  expression  of  your  esteem, 
as  due  only  to  me.  This  is  folly,  perhaps  ;  I  allow  it: 
but  it  is  natural  to  suppose,  that  merit  which  has 
made  an  impression  on  one's  own  heart  may  be 
powerful  over  that  of  another. 

Leontine.  Don't,  my  life's  treasure,  don't  let  us 
make  imaginary  evils,  when  you  know  we  have  so 
many  real  ones  to  encounter.  At  worst,  you  know, 
if  Miss  Richland  should  consent,  or  my  father  refuse 
his  pardon,  it  can  but  end  in  a  trip  to  Scotland ; 
and 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Where  have  you  been,  boy"!  I  have 
been  seeking  you.  My  friend  Honeywood  here  has 
been  saying  such  comfortable  things  !  Ah  !  he's  an 
example  indeed.     Where  is  he  !     1  left  him  here. 

Leontine.  Sir,  1  believe  you  may  see  him,  and 
hear  him  too,  in  the  next  room :  he's  preparing  to  go 
out  with  the  ladies. 

Croaker.  Good  gracious!  can  I  believe  my  eyes 
or  my  ears;  I'm  struck  dumb  with  his  vivacity,  and 
stunned  with  the  loudness  of  his  laugh.  Was  there 
ever  such  a  transformation !  (a  laugh  behind  the 
scenes,  Croaker  7nimics  it.)  Ha!  ha!  ha!  there  it 
goes:  a  plague  take  their  balderdash!  yet  1  could 
expect  nothing  less,  when  my  precious  wife  was  of 


112  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MaM. 

the  party.  On  my  conscience,  I  believe  she  could 
spread  a"  horse-laugh  through  the  pews  of  a  tabernacle. 

Leant ine.  Since  you  find  so  many  objections  to  a 
wife,  sir,  how  can  you  be  so  earuest  in  recommending 
one  to  me  1 

Croaker.  I  have  told  you,  and  tell  you  again,  boy, 
that  Miss  Richland's  fortune  must  not  go  out  of  the 
family  ;  one  may  find  comfort  in  the  money,  what- 
ever one  does  in  the  wife. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  though  in  obedience  to  your 
desire,  I  am  ready  to  marry  her,  it  may  be  possible 
she  has  no  inclination  to  me. 

Croaker.  I'll  tell  you  once  for  all  how  it  stands. 
A  good  part  of  Miss  Richland's  large  fortune  consists 
in  a  claim  upon  government,  which  my  good  friend, 
Mr.  Lofty,  assures  me  the  Treasury  will  allow.  One 
half  of  this  she  is  to  forfeit,  by  her  father's  will,  in 
case  she  refuses  to  marry  you.  So,  if  she  rejects  you, 
we  seize  half  her  fortune ;  if  she  accepts  you,  we 
seize  the  whole,  and  a  fine  girl  into  the  bargain. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  if  you  will  listen  to  reason 

Croaker.  Come,  then,  produce  your  reasons.  I 
tell  you,  I'm  fixed,  determined — so  now  produce 
your  reasons.  When  I  am  determined,  I  always 
listen  to  reason,  because  it  can  then  do  no  harm. 

Leontine.  You  have  alleged  that  a  mutual  choice 
was  the  first  requisite  in  matrimonial  happiness. 

Croaker.  Well,  and  you  have  both  of  you  a  mutual 
choice.  She  has  her  choice, — to  marry  you  or  lose 
half  her  fortune ;  and  you  have  your  choice, — to 
marry  her,  or  pack  out  of  doors  without  any  fortune 
at  all. 

Leontine.  An  only  son,  sir,  might  expect  more  in- 
dulgence. 

Croaker.  An  only  father,  sir,  might  expect  more 
obedience :  besides,  has  not  your  sister  here,  that 
never  disobliged  me  in  her  life,  as  good  a  right  as 
you  ?  He's  a  sad  dog,  Livy,  my  dear,  and  would 
take  all  from  you.  But  he  shan't,  I  tell  you  he 
shan't  i  for  you  shall  have  your  share. 


THE  OOUU-.N  VlTKKU  .MAN.  113 

Olivia.  Dear  sir,  1  wish  you'd  be  convinced,  that 
I  can  never  be  happy  in  any  addition  to  my  fortune, 
which  is  taken  from  his. 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  it's  a  good  child,  so  say  no 
more  ;  but  come  with  me,  and  we  shall  see  something 
that  will  give  us  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  I  promise 
you, — old  Rugsins,  the  currycomb  maker,  lying  in 
state :  I  am  told  ■he  makes  a  very  handsome  corpse, 
and  becomes  his  coffin  prodigiously.  lie  was  an  in- 
timate friend  of  mine,  and  these  are  friendly  things 
we  ought  to  do  for  each  other.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  SECOND. 
Scene — choaker's  house. 
Mia  Richland,  Garnet. 

Miss  Richland.  Olivia  not  his  sister?  Olivia  not 
Leor.tine's  sister?     You  amaze  me! 

Garnet.  No  more  his  sister  than  I  am  ;  I  had  it 
all  from  his  own  servant:  I  can  get  any  thing  from 
that  quarter. 

Miss  Richland.  But  how?    Tell  me  again,  Garnet. 

Garnet.  Why,  madam,  as  I  told  you  before,  in- 
stead of  going  to  Lyons  to  bring  home  his  sister,  who 
has  been  there  with  her  aunt  these  ten  years,  he  never 
went  farther  than  Paris:  there  he  saw  and  fell  in 
love  with  this  young  lady — by  the  by,  of  a  prodigious 
family. 

Miss  Richland.  And  brought  her  home  to  my 
guardian  as  Ins  daughter"! 

Garnet.  Yes,  and  his  daughter  she  will  be.  If  he 
tlon't  consent  to  their  marriage,  they  talk  of  trying 
what  a  Scotcli  parson  can  do. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  I  own  they  have  deceived 
me.     And  so  demurely  as  Olivia  carried  it    oo! — 


114  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

Would  you  believe  it,  Garnet,  I  told  her  all  my 
secrets  ;  and  yet  the  sly  cheat  concealed  all  this  from 
me  ! 

Garnet.  And,  upon  my  word,  madam,  I  don  t 
much  blame  her :  she  was  loath  to  trust  one  with  her 
secrets,  th-at  was  so  very  bad  at  keeping  her  own. 

Miss  Richland.  But,   to   add  to   their  deceit,   the 

young   gentleman,   it   seems,    pre^nds  to  make  me 

serious  proposals.     My  guardian  and  he  are  to  be 

jere  presently,  to  open  the  affair  in  form.     You  know 

am  to  lose  half  my  fortune  if  I  refuse  him. 

Garnet.  Yet,  what  can  you  do  ?  For  being,  as  you 
are,  in  love  with  Mr.  Honeywood,  madam 

Miss  Richland.  How!  idiot,  what  do  you  mean? 
In  love  with  Mr.  Honeywood  !  Is  this  to  provoke  me'! 

Garnet.  That  is,  madam,  in  friendship  with  him  :  I 
meant  nothing  more  than  friendship,  as  I  hope  to  be 
married — nothing  more. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  no  more  of  this.  As  to  my 
guardian  and  his  son,  they  shall  find  me  prepared  to 
receive  them:  I'm  resolved  to  accept  their  proposal 
with  seeming  pleasure,  to  mortify  them  by  compli- 
ance, and  so  throw  the  refusal  at  last  upon  them. 

Garnet.  Delicious!  and  that  will  secure  your  whole 
fortune  to  yourself.  Well,  who  could  have  thought 
so  innocent  a  face  could  cover  so  much  'cuteness ! 

Miss  Richland.  Why,  girl,  I  only  oppose  my  pru- 
dence to  their  cunning,  and  practise  a  lesson  they  have 
taught  me  against  themselves. 

Garnet.  Then  you're  likely  not  long  to  want  em- 
ployment, for  here  they  come,  and  in  close  conference. 

Enter  Croaker  and  Leoniine. 

Leontine.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  seem  to  hesitate  upon 
the  point  of  putting  to  the  lady  so  important  a  question. 

Croaker.  Lord !  good  sir,  moderate  your  fears ; 
you're  so  plaguy  shy,  that  one  would  think  you  had 
changed  sexes.  I  tell  you  we  must  have  the  half  or 
the  wlule.  Come,  let  me  see  with  what  spirit  you 
begin:     Well,  why  don't  you  ?    Eh!    What?    Well 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  115 

then,  I  must,  it  seems — Miss  Richland,  my  dear,  I 
believe  you  guess  at  our  business  ;  an  affair  which  my 
son  here  comes  to  open,  that  nearly  concerns  your 
happiness. 

Miss  Richland.  Sir,  I  should  be  ungrateful  not  to 
be  pleased  with  any  thing  that  comes  recommended 
by  you. 

Croaker.  How,  boy,  could  you  desire  a  finer  open- 
ing ?     Why  don't  you  begin,  I  say  1        [To  Leontine. 

Leontine.  "lis  true,  madam — my  father,  madam — 
lias  some  intentions — hem — of  explaining  an  affair, — 
which — himself  can  besrt  explain,  madam. 

Croaker.  Yes,  my  dear  ;  it  comes  entirely  from  my 
son  ;  it's  all  a  request  of  his  own,  madam.  And  I 
will  permit  him  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

Leontine.  The  whole  affair  is  only  this,  madam : 
my  father  has  a  proposal  to  make,  which  he  insists 
none  but  himself  shall  deliver. 

Croaker.  My  mind  missives  me,  the  fellow  will 
never  be  brought  on.  (Aside..)  In  short,  madam,  you 
see  before  you  one  that  loves  you — one  whose  whole 
happiness  is  ill  in  you. 

Mist  Richland.  I  never  had  any  doubts  of  your 
regard,  sir ;  and  I  hope  you  can  have  none  of  my 
duty. 

Croaker.  That's  not  the  thing,  my  little  sweeting — 
My  love  !  no,  no,  another  guess  lover  than  I  :  there 
he  stand-,  madam  ;  bis  very  looks  declare  the  force  of 
his  passion — Call  up  a  look,  you  dog !  (Aside.)  But 
then,  had  you  seen  him,  as  I  have,  weeping,  speaking 
soliloquies  and  blank  verse,  sometimes  melancholy, 
and  sometimes  absent 

Mi>s  It  chland-  1  fear,  sir,  he's  absent  now  ;  or  such 
a  declaration  would  have  come  most  properly  from 
himself. 

Croaker.  Himself !  Madam,  he  would  die  before  he 
could  make  such  a  confession  ;  and  if  he  had  not  a 
ael  for  his  passion  through  me,  it  would  ere  now 
have  drowned  bis  understanding. 

Miss  Richland.  1  must  grant,  sir,  there  are  attrac- 


ltG  THE  GOOU-NATUKED  MAN. 

tions  in  modest  diffidence  above  the  force  of  words, 
A  silent  address  is  the  genuine  eloquence  of  sincerity. 

Croaker.  Madam,  he  has  forgot  to  speak  any  other 
language  ;  silence  is  become  his  mother-tongue. 

Miss  Richland.  And  it  must  be  confessed,  sir,  it 
speaks  very  powerfully  in  his  favour.  And  yet  I  shall 
he  thought  too  forward  in  making  such  a  confession.; 
shan't  1,  Mr.  Leontine  ? 

Leoniine.  Confusion !  my  reserve  will  undo  me, 
But,  if  modesty  attracts  her,  impudence  may  disgust 
her.  I'll  try.  {Aside.)  Don't  imagine  from  my 
silence,  madam,  that  I  want  a  due  sense  of  the  honour 
and  happiness  intended  me.  My  father,  madam,  tells 
me  your  humble  servant  is  not  totally  indifferent  to 
you — he  admires  you :  I  adore  you  ;  and  when  we 
come  together,  upon  my  soul,  1  believe  we  shall  be 
the  happiest  couple  in  all  St.  James's. 

Miss  Richland.  If  I  could  flatter  myself  you  thought 
as  you  speak,  sir 

Leontine.  Doubt  my  sincerity,  madam  ?  By  your 
dear  self  I  swear.  Ask  the  brave  if  they  desire  glory  ? 
ask' cowards  if  they  covet  safety 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  no  more  questions  about  it. 

Leontine.  Ask  the  sick  if  they  long  for  health? 
ask  misers  if  they  love  money  ?  ask 

Croaker.  Ask  a  fool  if  he  can  talk  nonsense  ?  What's 
come  over  the  boy?  What  signifies  asking,  when 
there's  not  a  soul  to  give  you  an  answer?  If  you 
would  ask  to  the  purpose,  ask  this  lady's  consent  to 
make  you  happy. 

Miss  Richland.  Why,  indeed,  sir,  his  uncommon 
ardour  almost  compels  me — forces  me  to  comply. — 
And  yet  I'm  afraid  he'll  despise  a  conquest  gained 
with  too  much  ease  ;  won't  you,  Mr.  Leontine1 

Leontine.  Confusion!  (Aside.)  Oh,  by  no  means, 
madam,  by  no  means.  And  yet,  madam,  you  talked 
of  force.  There  is  nothing  1  would  avoid  so  much  as 
compulsion  in  a  thing  of  this  kind.  No,  madam,  I 
will  still  be  generous,  and  leave  you  at  liberty  to 
refuse. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  117 

Croaker.  But  1  tell  you,  sir,  the  lady  is  not  at 
liberty.  It's  a  match.  You  see  she  says  nothing. 
Silence  gives  consent. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  she  talked  of  force.  Consider, 
sir,  the  cruelty  of  constraining  her  inclinations. 

Croaker.  But  1  say  there's  no  cruelty.  Don't  you 
know,  blockhead,  that  girls  have  always  a  round- 
about way  of  saying  yes  before  company  1  So  get  you 
both  gone  together  into  the  next  room,  and  hang  him 
that  interrupts  the  tender  explanations.  Get  you  gone, 
1  say  ;  I'll  not  hear  a  word. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  1  must  beg  leave  to  insist— 

Croaker.  Get  off,  you  puppy,  or  I'll  beg  leave  to 
insist  upon  knocking  you  down.  Stupid  whelp  !  But 
I  don't  wonder:  the  boy  takes  entirely  after  his 
mother.  [Eretwt  Miss  Richland  and  Leontine. 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Mr.  Croaker,  1  bring  you  something, 
my  dear,  that  I  believe  will  make  you  smile. 

Croaker.   I'll  hold  you  a  guinea  of  that,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  A.  letter  ;  and  asl  knew  the  hand,  I 
ventured  to  open  it. 

Croaker.  And  how  can  you  expect  your  breaking 
open  my  letters  should  give  me  pleasure"! 

Mrs.Croah  r.  Pooh  !  it's  from  your  sister  at  Lyons, 
and  contains  good  news:   read  it. 

CroaLcr.  What  a  Frenchified  cover  is  here  !  That 
sister  of  mine  has  some  good  qualities,  but  I  could 
never  teach  her  to  fold  a  letter. 

Mrs.  CroaLcr.  Fold  a  fiddlestick  !  Read  what  it 
contains. 

Croaker  (reading). 

•  Dkar  Nick,— An  English  gentleman,  of  larce 
fortune,  has  for  some  time  made  private,  though 
honourable,  proposals  to  your  daughter  Olivia.  1  hey 
love  each  other  tenderly,  and  I  find  she  has  consented, 
without  letting  any  of  the  family  know,  to  crown  his 


118  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

addresses.  As  such  good  offers  don't  come  every  day, 
your  own  good  sense,  his  large  fortune,  and  family 
considerations,  will  induce  you  to  forgive  her.  Yours 
ever,  Rachael  Croaker.' 

My  daughter  Olivia  privately  contracted  to  a  man  of 
large  fortune !  This  is  good  news  indeed.  My  heart 
never  foretold  me  of  this.  And  yet,  how  slily  the  little 
baggage  has  carried  it  since  she  came  home ;  not  a 
word  on't  to  the  old  ones  for  the  world.  Yet  I  thought 
I  saw  something  she  wanted  to  conceal. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Well,  if  they  have  concealed  their 
amour,  they  shan't  conceal  their  wedding;  that  shall 
be  public,  I'm  resolved. 

Croaker.  1  tell  thee,  woman,  the  wedding  is  the 
most  foolish  part  of  the  ceremony.  I  can  nevei  get 
this  woman  to  think  of  the  most  serious  part  of  the 
nuptial  engagement. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What !  would  you  have  me  think  of 
their  funeral  ?  But  come,  tell  me,  my  dear,  don't  you 
owe  more  to  me  than  you  care  to  confess  1 — Would 
you  have  ever  been  known  to  Mr.  Lofty,  who  has 
undertaken  Miss  Richland's  claim  at  the  Treasury, 
but  for  me  ?  Who  was  it  first  made  him  an  acquaint- 
ance at  Lady  Shabbaroon's  rout'?  Who  got  him  to 
promise  us  his  interest  1  Is  not  he  a  back-stair  favou- 
rite— one  that  can  do  what  he  pleases  with  those  that 
do  what  they  please  ?  Is  not  he  an  acquaintance  that 
all  your  groaning  and  lamentations  could  never  have 
got  us  r 

Croaker.  He  is  a  man  of  importance,  I  grant  you. 
And  yet  what  amazes  me  is,  that,  while  he  is  giving 
away  places  to  all  the  world,  he  can't  get  one  for 
himself. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  That,  perhaps,  may  be  owing  to  hi3 
nicety.     Great  men  are  not  easily  satisfied. 


Enter  French  Servant. 

Servant.  An  expresse  from  Monsieur  Lofty.    He  vil 
be  vait  .upon  your   honours  instammant.     He  be  onlv 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  119 

giving  four  five  instruction,  read  two  tree  memorial, 
call  upon  von  ambassadeur.  He  vil  be  vid  you  in 
one  tree  minutes. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  You  see  now,  my  dear.  What  an 
extensive  department !  Well,  friend,  let  your  master 
know  that  we  are  extremely  honoured  by  this  honour. 
Was  there  any  thing  ever  in  a  higher  style  of  breeding? 
All  messages  among  the  great  are  now  done  by  ex- 
press. [Exit  French  servant. 

Croaker.  To  be  sure,  no  man  does  little  things  with 
more  solemnity,  or  claims  more  respect,  than  he.  But 
he's  in  the  right  on't.  In  our  bad  world,  respect  is 
given  where  respect  is  claimed. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Never  mind  the  world,  my  dear; 
you  were  never  in  a  pleasanter  place  in  your  life. 
Let  us  now  think  of  receiving  him  with  proper  respect, 
(a  loud  rapping  at  the  door ,)  and  there  he  is,  by  the 
thundering  rap. 

Croaker.  Ay,  verily,  there  he  is  !  as  close  upon  the 
heels  of  his  own  express,  as  an  endorsement  upon  the 
back  of  a  bill.  Well,  I'll  leave  you  to  receive  him, 
whilst  I  go  to  chide  my  little  Olivia  for  intending  to 
steal  a  marriage  without  mine  or  her  aunt's  consent. 
I  must  seem  to  be  angry,  or  she  too  may  begin  to 
despise  my  authority.  [Exit. 

Enter  Lofty,  speaking  to  his  Servant. 

Lofty.  And  if  the  Venetian  ambassador,  or  that 
teasing  creature  the  Marquis,  should  call,  I'm  not  at 
home.  Damme,  I'll  be  pack-horse  to  none  of  them. — 
My  dear  madam,  I  have  just  snatched  a  moment — 
And  if  the  expresses  to  his  Grace  be  ready,  let  them 
be  sent  off;  they're  of  importance. — Madam,  I  ask 
ten  thousand  pardons. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Sir,  this  honour 

Lofty.  And,  Dubardieu  !  if  the  person  calls  about 
the  commission,  let  him  know  that  it  is  made  out.  As 
for  Lord  Cumbercourt's  stale  request,  it  can  keep  eold : 
you  understand  me. — Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand 
pardons. 


120  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Sir,  this  honour 

Lofty.  And,  Dubardieu  !  if  the  man  comes  from  the 
Cornish  borough,  you  must  do  him  ;  you  must  do  him., 
1  say. — Madam,  1  ask  ten  thousand  pardons. — And  if 
the  Russian  ambassador  calls  ;  but  he  will  scarce  call 
to-day,  I  believe. — And  now,  madam,  I  have  just  got 
time  to  express  my  happiness  in  having  the  honour  of 
being  permitted  to  profess  myself  your  most  obedient 
humble  servant. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Sir,  the  happiness  and  honour  are  all 
mine ;  and  yet,  I'm  only  robbing  the  public  while  I 
detain  you. 

Lofty.  Sink  the  public,  madam,  when  the  fair  are 
to  be  attended.  Ah,  could  all  my  hours  be  so  charm- 
ingly devoted  !  Sincerely,  don't  you  pity  us  poor  crea- 
tures in  affairs'!  Thus  it  is  eternally;  solicited  for 
places  here,  teased  for  pensions  there,  and  courted 
every  where.   I  know  you  pity  me.  Yes,  I  see  you  do. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Excuse  me,  sir,  '  Toils  of  empires 
pleasures  are,'  as  Waller  says. 

Lofty.  Waller — Waller;  is  he  of  the  House? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  The  modern  poet  of  that  name,  sir. 

Lofty.  Oh,  a  modern  !  We  men  of  business  despise 
the  moderns  ;  and  as  for  the  ancients,  we  have  no  time 
to  read  them.  Poetry  is  a  pretty  thing  enough  for  our 
wives  and  daughters;  but  not  for  us.  Why  now,  here 
I  stand  that  know  nothing  of  books.  I  say,  madam, 
I  know  nothing  of  books  ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  upon  a 
land-carriage  fishery,  a  stamp  act,  or  a  jaghire,  I  can 
talk  my  two  hours  without  feeling  the  want  of  tlicm. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  The  world  is  no  stranger  to  Mr.  Lofty 's 
eminence  in  every  capacity. 

Lol'tv.  1  vow  to  gad,  madam,  vou  make  me  blush. 
I'm  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world  ;  a  mere 
obscure  gentleman.  To  be  sure,  indeed,  one  or  t«o 
of  the  present  ministers  are  pleased  to  represent  me  as 
a  formidable  man.  1  know  they  are  pleased  to  in  • 
spatter  me  at  all  their  little  dirty  levees.  Vet,  u;.e;t 
my  soul,  I  wonder  what  they  see  in  me  to  tir  ;  n 
(Measures,  not  men,  have  always  been  my  mark  ; 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  121 

I  vow,  by  all  that's  honourable,  my  resentment  has 
never  done  the  men,  as  mere  men,  any  manner  of 
harm — that  is,  as  mere  men. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What  importance,  and  yet  what 
modesty ! 

Lofty.  Oh,  if  you  talk  of  modesty,  madam,  there,  I 
own,  I'm  accessible  to  praise  :  modesty  is  my  foible  : 
it  was  so  the  Duke  of  Brentford  used  to  say  of  me. 
'  I  love  Jack  Lofty,'  he  used  to  say,  '  no  man  has  a 
finer  knowledge  of  tilings  ;  quite  a  man  of  information  ; 
and  when  he  speaks  upon  his  legs,  by  the  Lord,  he's 
prodigious — he  scouts  them  ;  and  yet  all  men  have 
their  faults  :  too  much  modesty  is  his,'  says  his  Grace. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  yet,  I  dare  say,  you  don't  want 
assurance  when  you  come  to  solicit  for  your  friends. 

Lofty.  Oh,  there,  indeed,  I'm  in  bronze.  Apropos! 
1  have  just  been  mentioning  Miss  Richland's  case  to 
a  certain  personage  ;  we  must  name  no  names.  When 
I  ask,  I'm  not  to  be  put  oft",  madam.  No,  no,  I  take 
my  friend  by  the  button.  A  fine  girl,  sir  ;  great  jus- 
tice in  her  case.  A  friend  of  mine.  Borough  interest. 
Business  must  be  done,  Mr.  Secretary.  I  say,  Mr. 
Secretary,  her  business  must  be  done,  sir.  That's  my 
way,  madam; 

Mrs.  i  Toaker.  Bkss  me !  you  said  all  this  to  the  Se- 
cretary of  State,  did  you  ? 

Lofty.  1  did  not  say  the  Secretary,  did  I?  Well, 
curse  it,  since  you  have  found  me  out,  I  will  not  deny 
it, — it  w.is  to  the  Secretary. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  This  was  going  to  the  fountain-head 
at  once,  not  applying  to  the  understrappers,  as  Mr. 
Honeywood  would  have  had  us. 

Lofty.  Honeywood!  he!  he!  He  was,  indeed,  a 
fine  solicitor.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  has 
just  happened  to  him  ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Poordearman!  no  accident,  I  hope? 

Lofty.  Undone,  madam,  that's  all.  His  creditors 
have  taken  him  into  custody — a  prisoner  in  his  own 
house. 

G 


122 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN 


Mrs.  Croaker.  A  prisoner  in  his  own  house  !  How? 
At  this  very  time?     I'm  quite  unhappy  for  him. 

Lofty.  Why,  so  am  I.  The  man,  to  be  sure,  was 
immensely  good-natured.  But  then,  I  could  never 
find  that  he  had  any  thing  in  him. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  His  manner,  to  be  sure,  was  exces- 
sive harmless  ;  some,  indeed,  thought  it  a  little  dull. 
For  my  part,  1  always  concealed  my  opinion. 

Lofty.  It  can't  be  concealed,  madam  ;  the  man  was 
dull — dull  as  the  last  new  comedy  !  a  poor  impracti- 
cable creature  !  I  tried  once  or  twice  to  know  if  he  was 
fit  for  business  ;  but  he  had  scarce  talents  to  be  groom- 
porter  to  an  orange-barrow. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  How  differently  does  Miss  Richland 
think  of  him  !  For,  I  believe,  with  all  his  faults,  she 
loves  him. 

Lofty.  Loves  him  !  does  she  ?  You  should  cure 
her  of  that  by  all  means.  Let  me  see  ;  what  if  she 
were  sent  to  him  this  instant,  in  his  present  doleful 
situation  ?  My  life  for  it,  that  works  her  cure.  Dis- 
tress is  a  perfect  antidote  to  love.  Suppose  we  join 
her  in  the  next  room-!  Miss  Richland  is  a  fine  girl, 
has  a  fine  fortune,  and  must  not  be  thrown  away. 
Upon  my  honour,  madam,  I  have  a  regard  for  Bliss 
Richland  ;  and,  rather  than  she  should  be  thrown 
away,  I  should  think  it  no  indignity  to  marry  her  my- 
self. [EieitiH. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Leontine. 

Leontine.  And  yet,  trust  me,  Olivia,  I  had  every 
reason  to  expect  Miss  Richland's  refusal,  as  I  did  every 
thing  in  my  power  to  deserve  it.  Her  indelicacy  sur- 
prises me. 

Olivia.  Sure,  Leontine,  there's  nothing  so  indelicate 
in  being  sensible  of  your  merit.  If  so,  I  fear  I  shall 
be  the  most  guilty  thing  alive. 

Leontine.  But  you  mistake,  my  dear.  The  same 
attention  I  used  to  advance  my  merit  with  you,  I  prac- 
tised to  lessen  it  with  her.     What  more  could  I  do? 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  123 

Olivia.  Let  us  now  rather  consider  what  is  to  be 
done.  We  have  botli  dissembled  too  long.  I  have 
always  been  ashamed — I  am  now  quite  weary  of  it. 
Sure  I  could  never  have  undergone  so  much  for  any 
other  but  you. 

Leontine.  And  you  shall  find  my  gratitude  equal  to 
your  kindest  compliance.  Though  our  friends  should 
totally  forsake  us,  Olivia,  we  can  draw  upon  content 
for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune. 

Olivia.  Then  why  should  we  defer  our  scheme  of 
humble  happiness,  when  it  is  now  in  our  power  1  I 
may  be  the  favourite  of  your  father,  it  is  true  ;  but  can 
it  ever  be  thought,  that  his  present  kindness  to  a  sup- 
posed child  will  continue  to  a  known  deceiver1? 

Leontine.  I  have  many  reasons  to  believe  it  will.  As 
his  attachments  are  but  few,  they  are  lasting.  His 
own  marriage  was  a  private  one,  as  ours  may  be.  Be- 
sides, 1  have  sounded  him  already  at  a  distance,  and 
find  all  his  answers  exactly  to  our  wish.  Nay,  by  an 
expression  or  two  that  dropped  from  him,  1  am  in- 
duced to  think  he  knows  of  this  affair. 

Olivia.  Indeed!  But  that  would  be  a  happiness  too 
great  to  be  expected. 

Leontine.  However  it  be,  I'm  certain  you  have 
power  over  hrm  ;  and  am  persuaded,  if  you  informed 
him  of  our  situation,  that  he  would  be  disposed  to 
pardon  it. 

Olivia.  You  had  equal  expectations,  Leontine,  from 
your  last  scheme  with  Miss  Richland,  which  you  find 
has  succeeded  most  wretchedly. 

Leontine.  And  that's  the  best  reason  for  trying 
another. 

Olivia.  If  it  must  be  so,  I  submit. 

Leontine.  As  we  could  wish,  lie  comes  this  way. 
Now,  my  dearest  Olivia,  be  resolute.  I'll  just  retire 
within  hearing,  to  come  in  at  a  proper  time,  either  to 
share  your  danger,  or  confirm  your  victory.         [Exit, 


124 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN 


Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Yes,  I  must  forgive  her ;  and  yet  not  too 
easily,  neither.  It  will  be  proper  to  keep  up  the  de- 
corums of  resentment  a  little,  if  it  be  only  to  impress 
her  with  an  idea  of  my  authority. 

Olivia.  How  I  tremble  to  approach  him  ! — Slight  I 
presume,  sir — If  I  interrupt  you 

Croaker.  No,  child,  wher.e  I  have  an  affection,  it  is 
not  a  little  thing  can  interrupt  me.  Affection  gets  over 
little  things. 

Olivia.  Sir,  you're  too  kind.  I'm  sensible  how  ill 
I  deserve  this  partiality  ;  yet,  Heaven  knows,  there  is 
nothing  I  would  not  do  to  gain  it. 

Croaker.  And  you  have  but  too  well  succeeded,  you 
little  hussy,  you.  With  those  endearing  ways  of  your's, 
on  my  conscience,  I  could  be  brought  to  forgive  any 
thing,  unless  it  were  a  very  great  offence  indeed. 

Olivia.  But  mine  is  such  an  offence — When  you 
know  my  guilt — Yes,  you  shall  know  it,  though  I 
feel  the  greatest  pain  in  the  confession. 

Croaker.  Why,  then,  if  it  bs  so  very  great  a  pain, 
you  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble  ;  for  1  know  every 
syllable.of  the  matter  before  you  begin. 

Olivia.  Indeed  !  then  I'm  undone. 

Croaker.  Ay,  miss,  you  wanted  to  steal  a  match, 
without  letting  me  know  it,  did  you?  But  I'm  not 
worth  being  consulted,  I  suppose,  when  there's  to  be 
a  marriage  in  my  own  family.  No,  I'm  to  have  no 
hand  in  the  disposal  of  my  own  children.  No,  I'm 
nobody.  I'm  to  be  a  mere  article  of  family  lumber; 
a  piece  of  cracked  china,  to  be  stuck  up  in  a  corner. 

Olivia.  Dear  sir,  nothing  but  the  dread  of  your  au- 
thority could  induce  us  to  conceal  it  from  you. 

Crai/.er.  No,  no,  my  consequence  is  no  more  ;  I'm 
as  little  minded  as  a  dead  Russian  in  winter,  just  stuck 
up  with  a  pipe  in  its  mouth  till  there  comes  a  thaw — 
It  goes  to  my  heart  to  vex  her.  [Aside. 

Olivia.  I  was  prepared,  sir,  for  your  anger,  and 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  125 

despaired  of  pardon,  even  while  I  presumed  to  ask  it. 
But  your  severity  shall  never  abate  my  affection,  as 
my  punishment  is  but  justice. 

Croaker.  And  yet  you  should  not  despair,  neither, 
Livy.    We  ought  to  hope  all  for  the  best. 

Olivia.  And  do  you  permit  me  to  hope,  sir?  Can 
I  ever  expect  to  be  forgiven  ?  But  hope  has  too 
long  deceived  me. 

Croaker.  Why  then,  child,  it  shan't  deceive  you 
now,  for  I  forgive  you  this  very  moment;  I  forgive 
you  all.'  and  now  you  are  indeed  my  daughter. 

Oliva.  Oh  transport !  this  kindness  overpowers  me. 

Croaker.  I  was  always  against  severity  to  our  chil- 
lren.  We  have  been  young  and  giddy  ourselves,  and 
«ve  can't  expect  boys  and  girls  to  be  old  before  their 
time. 

Olivia.  What  generosity  !  But  can  you  forget  the 
many  falsehoods,  the  dissimulation 

Croaker.  You  did  indeed  dissemble,  you  urchin 
you;  but  where's  the  girl  that  won't  dissemble  for  a 
husband  ?  My  wife  and  I  had  never  been  married,  if 
we  had  not  dissembled  a  little  beforehand. 

Olivia.  It  shall  be  my  future  care  never  to  put 
such  generosity  to  a  second  trial.  And  as  for  the 
partner  of  my  offence  and  folly,  from  his  native 
honour,  and  the  just  sense  he  has  of  his  duty,  I  can 
answer  for  him  that 

Enter  Leontine. 

Leontine.  Permit  him  thus  to  answer  for  himself. 
(Kneeling.)  Thus,  sir,  let  me  speak  my  gratitude 
for  this  unmerited  forgiveness.  Yes,  sir,  this  even 
exceeds  all  your  former  tenderness  :  1  now  can  boast 
the  most  indulgent  of  fathers.  The  life  he  gave,  com- 
pared to  this,  was  but  a  trifling  blessing. 

Croaker.  And,  good  sir,  who  sent  for  you,  with 
that  fine  tragedy  face,  and  flourishing  manner?  I 
don't  know  what  we  have  to  do  with  your  gratitude 
upon  this  occasion. 


12t>  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAM. 

Leontine.  How,  sir !  is  it  possible  to  be  silent, 
when  so  much  obliged  ?  Would  you  refuse,  me  the 
pleasure  of  being  grateful"!  of  adding  my  thanks  to 
my  Olivia's?  of  sharing  in  the  transports  that  you 
have  thus  occasioned  ? 

Croaker.  Lord,  sir,  we  can  he  happy  enough  with- 
out your  coming  in  to  make  up  the  party.  I  don't 
know  what's  the  matter  with  the  boy  all  this  day  ;  he 
has  got  into  such  a  rhodoraontade  manner  all  this 
morning ! 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  I  that  have  so  large  a  part  in 
the  benefit,  is  it  not  my  duty  to  shew  my  joy  ?  Is  the 
being  admitted  to  your  favour  so  slight  an  obligation  ? 
Is  the  happiness  of  marrying  my  Olivia  so  small  a 
blessing? 

Croaker.  Marrying  Olivia  !  marrying  Olivia !  mar- 
rying his  own  sister !  Sure  the  boy  is  out  of  his 
senses.     His  own  sister  ! 

Leontine.  My  sister ! 

Olivia.  Sister !  how  have  I  been  mistaken  !    [Aside. 

Leontine.  Some  cursed  mistake  in  all  this  I  find. 

[Aside. 

Croaker.  What  does  the  booby  mean?  or  has  he 
any  meaning?  Eh,  what  do  you  mean,  you  block- 
head, you  ? 

Leontine.  Mean,  sir? — why,  sir — only  when  my 
sister  is  to  be  married,  that  1  have  the  pleasure  of 
marrying  her,  sir,— that  is,  of  giving  her  away,  sir — 
I  have  made  a  point  of  it. 

Croaker.  Oh,  is  that  all?  Give  her  away.  You 
have  made  a  point  of  it?  Then  you  had  as  good  make 
a  point  of  first  giving  away  yourself,  as  I'm  going  to 
prepare  the  writings  between  you  and  Miss  Richland 
this  very  minute.  What  a  fuss  is  here  about  nothing  ! 
Why  what's  the  matter  now?  I  thought  I  had  made 
you  at  least  as  happy  as  you  could  wish. 

Olivia.  Oh,  yes,  sir;  very  happy. 

Croaker.  Do  you  foresee  any  thing,  child  ?  You 
leok  as  if  you  did.     I  think  if  any  thing  was  to  be 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  127 

foreseen,  I  have  as  sharp  a  look-out  as  another;  and 
yet  I  foresee  nothing.  [Exit. 

Leontine  and  Olivia. 

Olivia.  What  can  it  mean? 

Leontine.  He  knows  something,  and  yet,  for  my 
life,  1  can't  tell  what. 

Olivia.  It  can't  be  the  connexion  between  us,  I'm 
pretty  certain. 

Leontine.  Whatever  it  be,  my  dearest,  I'm  resolved 
to  put  it  out  of  fortune's  power  to  repeat  our  mortifi- 
cation. I'll  haste  and  prepare  for  our  journey  to 
Scotland  this  very  evening.  My  friend  Iloneywood 
has  promised  me  his  advice  and  assistance.  I'll  go 
to  him  and  repose  our  distresses  on  his  friendly  bosom ; 
and  I  know  so  much  of  his  honest  heart,  that  if  he 
can't  relieve  our  uneasinesses,  he  will  at  least  share 
them.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   THIRD. 

Scene — young  honeywood'3  nousK. 
Bailiff,  Honeywood,  Follower. 

Bailiff.  Lookye,  sir,  I  ha-ve  arrested  as  good  men 
as  you  in  my  time — no  disparagement  of  you  neither 
— men  that  would  go  forty  guineas  on  a  game  of 
cribbage.  I  challenge  the  town  to  shew  a  man  in 
more  genteeler  practice  than  myself. 

Honeywood.  Without  all  question,  Mr. I  for- 
get your  name,  sir'! 

Bailiff.  J  low  can  you  forget  what  you  never  knew  1 
he !  he !  he  ! 

Honeywood.  May  I  beg  leave  to  ask  your  name  1 

Bailiff.   Yes,  you  may. 

Honeywood.  Then,  pray  sir,  what  is  your  name? 

Bailiff.   lh, it  I  didn't  promise  to  tell  you. — He! 


128  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

he  !  he  ! — A  joke  breaks  no  bones,  as  we  say  among 
us  that  practise  the  law. 

Honeyuood.  You  may  have  reason  for  keeping  it  a 
secret,  perhaps  ? 

Bailiff.  The  law  does  nothing  without  reason.  I'm 
ashamed  to  tell  my  name  to  no  man,  sir.  If  you  can 
shew  cause,  as  why,  upon  a  special  capus,  that  I 
should  prove  my  name — But,  come,  'limothy  Twitch 
is  my  name.  And,  now  you  know  my  name,  what 
have  you  to  say  to  that? . 

Honeywood.  Nothing  in  the  world,  good  Mr.Twitch, 
but  that  I  have  a  favour  to  ask,  that's  all. 

Bailiff.  Ay,  favours  are  more  easily  asked  than 
granted,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law. 
1  have  taken  an  oath  against  granting  favours. 
Would  you  have  me  perjure  myself? 

Honeyicood.  But  my  request  will  come  recom- 
mended in  so  strong  a  manner,  as,  I  believe,  you'll 
have  no  scruple  (pulling  out  h<s  purse).  The  thing 
is  only  this  :  I  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  discharge 
this  trifle  in  two  or  three  days  at  farthest ;  but  as  I 
would  not  have  the-affair  known  for  the  world,  I  have 
thoughts  of  keeping^ou,  and  your  good  friend  here, 
about  me,  till  the  debt  is  discharged  ;  for  which  I  shall 
be  properly  grateful. 

Bailiff.  Oh  !  that's  anothei  maxum,  and  altogether 
within  my  oath.  For  certain,  if  an  honest  man  is  to 
get  any  thing  by  a  thing,  there's  no  reason  why  all 
things  should  not  be  done  in  civility. 

Honeywood.  Doubtless,  all  trades  must  live,  Mr. 
Twitch  ;  and  yours  is  a  necessary  one. 

[Gives  him  money. 

Bailiff.  Oh  !  your  honour ;  I  hope  your  honour 
takes  nothing  amiss  as  1  does,  as  I  does  nothing  but 
my  duty  in  so  doing.  I'm  sure  no  man  can  say  I 
ever  give  a  gentleman,  that  was  a  gentleman,  ill 
usage.  If  I  saw  that  a  gentleman  was  a  gentleman, 
I  have  taken  money  not  to  see  him  for  ten  weeks 
together. 

Honeyivood.  Tenderness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  129 

Bailiff.  Ay,  sir,  it's  a  perfect  treasure.  I  love  to 
see  a  gentleman  with  a  tender  heart.  I  don't  know, 
but  I  think  I  have  a  tender  heart  myself.  If  all  that 
I  have  lost  by  my  heart  was  put  together,  it  would 
make  a — but  no  matter  for  that. 

Honeyweod.  Don't  account  it  lost,  Mr.  Twitch. 
The  ingratitude  of  the  world  can  never  deprive  us  of 
the  conscious  happiness  of  having  acted  with  humanity 
ourselves. 

Bailiff.  Humanity,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  It's  better  than 
gold.  1  love  humanity.  People  msy  say,  that  we 
in  our  way  have  no  humanity;  but  I'll  shew  you 
my  humanity  this  moment.  There's  my  follower 
here,  liule  Flanigan,  with  a  wife  and  four  children — 
a  guinea  or  two  would  be  more  to  him,  than  twice 
as  much  to  another.  Now,  as  I  can't  shew  him 
any  humanity  myself,  I  must  beg  leave  you'll  do  it 
for  me. 

Honeywood.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Twitch,  yours  is  a 
most  powerful  recommendation. 

[Giving  money  to  the  follower. 

Bailiff.  Sir,  you're  a  gentleman.  "  I  see  you  know 
what  to  do  with  your  money.  But,  to  business,  we  are 
to  be  with  you  here  as  your  friends,  1  suppose.  But  set 
in  case  company  comes.  Little  Flanigan  here,  to  be 
sure,  has  a  good  face — a  very  good  face  ;  but  then,  he 
is  a  little  seedy,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the 
law, — not  well  in  clothes.     Smoke  the  pocket-holes. 

Honeywood.  Well,  that  shall  be  remedied  without 
delay. 

Enter  Servant, 

Servant.  Sir,  Mi-s  Richland  is  below. 

Honeywood.  How-  unlucky  !  Detain  her  a  moment. 
We  must  improve  my  good  friend  little  Mr.  Flanigan's 
appearance  rir.-t.  Here,  let  :\lr.  Flanigan  have  a  suit 
of  my  clothes — quick — the  brown  and  silver — Do  you 
hear  t 

Servant.  That  your  honour  gave  away  to  the  beg- 
man  that  makes  verses,  because  it  was  as 
good  as  new. 
•  Ci  2 


130 


THE  GOOD NATUIIED  MAN. 


Honeywood.  The  white  anil  gold  then. 

Servant.  That,  your  honour,  1  made  bold  to  sell, 
because  it  was  good  for  nothing. 

Honeywood.  Well,  the  first  that  comes  to  hand 
then — the  blue  and  gold.  I  believe  Mr.  Flanigan 
will  look  best  in  blue.  [Exit  I'lanigan. 

Bailiff.  Rabbit  me,  but  little  Flanigan  will  look 
well  in  any  thing.  Ah,  if  your  honour^knew  that  bit 
of  flesh  as  well  as  1  do,  you'd  be  perfectly  in  love 
with  him.  There's  not  a  prettier  scout  in  the  four 
counties  after  a  shy-cock  than  he  :  scents  like  a  hound 
— sticks  like  a  weasel.  He  was  master  of  the  cere- 
monies to  the  black  Queen  of  Morocco,  when  I  took 
him  to  follow  me.  (  lie-enter  Flanigan.)  Heh  !  ecod, 
I  think  he  looks  so  well,  that  1  don't  care  if  I  have  a 
suit  from  the  same  place  for  myself. 

Honeywood.  Well,  well,  I  hear  the  lady  coming. 
Dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  beg  you'll  give  your  friend  direc- 
tions not  to  speak.  As  for  yourself,  1  know  you  will 
sav  nothing  without  being  directed. 

Bailiff'.  Never  you  fear  me  ;  I'll  shew  the  lady  that 
I  have  something  to  say  for  myself  as  well  as  another. 
One  man  has  one  way  of  talking,  and  another  man 
has  another,  that's  all  the  difference  between  them. 


Enter  Miss  Richland  and  Garnet. 

Miss  Richland.  You'll  be  surprised,  sir,  with  this 
visit.  But  you  know  I'm  yet  to  thank  you  for  choosing 
mv  little  library. 

Honeywood.  Thanks,  madam,  are  unnecessary  ;  as 
it  was  1  that  was  obliged  by  your  commands.  Chairs 
here.  Two  of  my  very  good  friends,  Mr.  Twitch  and 
Mr.  I'lanigan.  Pray,  gentlemen,  sit  without  cere- 
mony. 

Miss  Richland.  Who  can  these  odd-looking  men 
be?    I  fear  it  is  as  I  was  informed.     It  must  be  so. 

[Aside. 

Bailiff.  (After  a  pause.)  Erelty  weather;  very  pretty 
weather  for  the  time  of  the  year,  madam. 


THE    JOOD-NATURED  MAN.  131 

Follower.  Very  good  circuit  weather  in  the  country. 

lloneywood.  You  officers  are  generally  favourites 
among  the  ladies.  My  friends,  madam,  have  been 
upon  very  disagreeable  duty,  1  assure  you.  The  fair 
should,  in  some  measure,  recompense  the  toils  of  the 
brave. 

Miss  Richland.  Our  officers  do  indeed  deserve  every 
favour.  The  gentlemen  are  in  the  marine  service,  I 
presume,  sir? 

lloneywood.  Why,  madam,  they  do — occasionally 
serve  in  the  Fleet,  madam.     A  dangerous  service .' 

Miss  Richland.  I'm  told  so.  And  I  own  it  has  often 
surprised  me,  that  while  we  have  had  so  many  in- 
stances of  bravery  there,  we  have  had  so  few  of  wit  at 
home  to  praise  it. 

lloneywood.  1  grant,  madam,  that  our  poets  have 
not  written  as  our  sailors  have  fought  ■,  but  they  have 
done  all  they  could,  and  llawke  or  Amherst  could  do 
no  more. 

Miss  Richland.  I'm  quite  displeased  when  1  see  a 
fine  subject  spoiled  by  a  dull  writer. 

lloneywood.  We  should  not  be  so  severe  against 
dull  writers,  madam.  It  is  ten  to  one  but  the  dullest 
writer  exceeds  the  most  rigid  French  critic  who  pre- 
sumes to  despise  him. 

Follower.  Damn  the  French,  the  parle  vous,  and  all 
that  belongs  to  them  ! 

Miss  Richland.  Sir! 

lloneywood.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  honest  Mr.  Flanigan.  A 
true  English  officer,  madam  ;  he's  not  contented  with 
beating  tie  French,  but  he  will  scold  them  too. 

Miss  Richland.  Yet,  Mr.  lloneywood,  this  does  not 
convince  me  but  that  severity  in  criticism  is  necessary. 
It  was  our  first  adopting  the  severity  of  French  taste, 
that  has  brought  them  in  turn  to  taste  us. 

Bailiff.  Taste  us!  By  the  Lord,  madam,  they  de- 
vour us.  Give  Mounseers  but  a  taste,  and  I'll  be 
damn'd  but  they  come  in  for  a  belly  full. 

Miss  Richland.  Very  extraordinary  this  ! 
Follower.  Hut  very  true.      What  makes  the  bread 


132  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

rising  1  the  parle  vous  that  devour  us.  What  makes 
the  mutton  rivepence  a  pound  1  the  parle  vous  that  eat 
it  up.  What  makes  the  beer  threepence-halfpenny 
a  pot  ? 

Honeywood.  Ah  !  the  vulgar  rogues ;  all  will  be 
out.  {Aside.)  Right,  gentlemen,  very  right,  upon  my 
word,  and  quite  to  the  purpose.  They  draw  a  parallel, 
madam,  between  the  mental  taste  and  that  of  our 
senses.  We  are  injured  as  much  by  the  French  se- 
verity in  the  one,  as  by  French  rapacity  in  the  other. 
That's  their  meaning. 

Miss  Richland.  Though  I  don't  see  the  force  of  the 
parallel,  yet  I'll  own,  that  we  should  sometimes  pardon 
books,  as  we  do  our  friends,  that  iiave  now  and  then 
agreeable  absurdities  to  recommend  them. 

Bailiff.  That's  all  my  eye.  The  King  only  can 
pardon,  as  the  law  says  :  for,  set  in  case 

HoneywooA.  I'm  quite  of  your  opinion,  sir.  I  see 
the  whole  drift  of  your  argument.  Yes,  certainly,  our 
presuming  to  pardon  any  work,  is  arrogating  a  power 
that  belongs  to  another.  If  all  have  power  to  con- 
demn, what  writer  can  be  free] 

Bailiff.  By  his  habus  corpus.  His  habus  corpus 
can  set  him  free  at  any  time :  for,  set  in  case 

Honeywood.  I'm  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  hint. 
If,  madam,  as  my  friend  observes,  our  laws  are  so 
careful  of  a  gentleman's  person,  sure  we  ought  to  be 
equally  careful  of  his  dearer  part,  his  fame. 

Follower.  Ay,  but  if  so  be  a  man's  nabb'd,  you 
know 

Honeywood.  Mr.  Flanigan,  if  you  spoke  for  ever, 
you  could  not  improve  the  last  observation.  For  my 
own  part,  I  think  it  conclusive. 

Badff.  As  for  the  matter  of  that,  mayhap 

Honeywood.  Nay,  sir,  give  me  leave,  in  this  in- 
stance, to  be  positive.  For  where  is  the  necessity  of 
censuring  works  without  genius,  which  must  shortly 
sink  of  themselves'?  what  is  it,  but  aiming  an  unne- 
cessary blow  against  a  victim  already  under  the  hands 
of  justice! 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  133 

Baihff.  Justice!  Oh,  by  the  elevens!  if  you  talk 
about  justice,  I  think  I  am  at  home  there:  for,  in  a 
course  of  law 

Honeywood.  My  dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  discern  what 
you'd  be  at,  perfectly  ;  and  I  believe  the  lady  must  be 
sensible  of  the  art  with  which  it  is  introduced.  I  sup- 
pose you  perceive  the  meaning,  madam,  of  his  course 
of  law. 

Miss  Richland.  I  protest,  sir,  I  do  not.  I  perceive 
only  that  you  answer  one  gentleman  before  he  has 
finished,  and  the  other  before  he  has  well  begun. 

Baitiff.  Madam,  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I  will 
make  tltc  matter  out.  This  here  question  is  about 
severity,  and  justice,  and  pardon,  and  the  like  of  they. 
Now,  to  explain  the  thing 

Honeywood.  Oh  !  curse  your  explanations  !   [Aside. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Mr.  Leontine,  sir,  below,  desires  to  speak 
with  you  upon  earnest  business. 

Honeywood.  That's  lucky.  (Aside.)  Dear  madam, 
you*ll  excuse  me  and  my  good  friends  here,  for  a  few 
minutes.  There  are  books,  madam,  to  amuse  you. 
Come,  gentlemen,  you  know  I  make  no  ceremony  with 
such  friends.  After  you,  sir.  Excuse  me.  Well,  if 
I  must.     But  I  know  your  natural  politeness. 

Bailiff.    Before  and  behind,  you  know. 

Follower.  Ay,  ay,  before  and  behind,  before  and 
behind.       [Exeunt  Honeywood,  Bailiff,  and  Follower. 

Miss  Richland.  What  can  all  this  mean,  Garnet? 

Garnet.  Mean,  madam !  why,  what  should  it  mean, 
but  what  Mr.  Lofty  sent  you  here  to  seel.  These  peo- 
ple he  calls  officers,  are  officers  sure  enough  :  sheriff's 
officers — bailiffs,  madam. 

MissRiehland.  Ay,  it  is  certainly  so.  Well,  though 
his  perplexities  are  far  from  giving  me  pleasure,  yet  I 
own  there  is  something  very  ridiculous  in  them,  and  a 
just  punishment  for  his  dissimulation. 

Garnet.  And  so  they  are  :  but  I  wonder,  madam, 


134 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


that  the  lawyer  you  just  employed  to  pay  his  debts, 
and  set  him  free,  has  not  done  it  by  this  time.  He 
ought  at  least  to  have  been  here  before  now.  But 
lawyers  are  always  more  ready  to  get  a  man  into 
troubles  than  out  of  them. 


Enter  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  For  Miss  Richland  to  undertake  set- 
ting him  free,  I  own,  was  quite  unexpected.  It  has 
totally  unhinged  my  schemes  to  reclaim  him.  Yet  it 
gives  me  pleasure  to  find,  that  among  a  number  of 
worthless  friendships,  he  has  made  one  acquisition  of 
real  value ;  for  there  must  be  some  softer  passion  on 
her  side,  that  prompts  this  generosity.  Ha!  here 
before  met  I'll  endeavour  to  sound  her  affections.— 
Madam,  as  I  am  the  person  that  have  had  some  de- 
mands upon  the  gentleman  of  this  house,  I  hope  you'll 
excuse  me,  if,  before  I  enlarged  him,  I  wanted  to  see 
yourself. 

Miss  Richland.  The  precaution  was  very  unneces- 
sary, sir.  I  suppose  your  wants  were  only  such  as 
my  agent  had  power  to  satisfy. 

Sir  William.  Partly,  madam.  But  I  was  also 
willing  you  should  be  fully  apprized  of  the  character 
of  the  gentleman  you  intended  to  serve. 

Miss  Richland.  It  must  come,  sir,  with  a  very  ill 
grace  from  you.  To  censure  it,  after  what  you  have 
done,  would  look  like  malice  ;  and  to  speak  favour- 
ably of  a  character  you  have  oppressed,  would  be 
impeaching  your  own.  And  sure,  his  tenderness,  his 
humanity,  his  universal  friendship,  may  atone  for 
many  faults. 

Sir  William.  That  friendship,  madam,  which  is 
exerted  in  loo  wide  a  sphere,  becomes  totally  useless. 
Our  bounty,  like  a  drop  of  water,  disappears  when 
diffused  too  widely.  They  who  pretend  most  to  this 
universal  benevolence,  are  either  deceivers  or  dupes,— 
men  who  desire  to  cover  their  private  ill-nature,  by  a 
pretended   regard   for   all,  or    men  who,    reasoning 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  ]30 

themselves  into  false   feelings,  are  more  earnest  in 
pursuit  of  splendid,  than  of  useful,  virtues. 

Miss  Richland.  I  am  surprised,  sir,  to  hear  one, 
who  has  probably  been  a  gainer  by  the  folly  of  others, 
so  severe  in  his  censure  of  it. 

Sir  William.  Whatever  I  may  have  gained  by 
folly,  madam,  you  see  I  am  willing  to  prevent  your 
losing  by  it. 

Miss  Richland.  Your  cares  for  me,  sir,  are  unneces- 
sary, I  always  suspect  those  services  which  are  denied 
where  they  are  wanted,  and  offered,  perhaps,  in  hopes 
of  a  refusal.  No,  sir,  my  directions  have  been  given, 
and  I  insist  upon  their  being  complied  with. 

Sir  William.  Thou  amiable  woman !  I  can  no 
longer  contain  the  expressions  of  my  giatitude — my 
pleasure.  You  see  before  you  one  who  has  been 
equally  careful  of  his  interest ;  one,  who  has  for  some 
time  been  a  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies,  and 
only  punished  in  hopes  to  reclaim  them,— his  uncle! 

Miss  Richland.  Sir  William  Honeywood !  You 
amaze  me.  How  shall  I  conceal  my  confusion  ?  I 
fear,  sir,  you'll  think  I  have  been  too  forward  in  my 
service*.     I  confess  I 

Sir  William.  Don't  make  any  apologies,  madam. 
I  only  find  myself  unable  to  repay  the  obligation. 
And  yet,  1  have  been  trying  my  interest  of  late  to 
serve  you.  Having  learned,  madam,  that  you  had 
some  demands  upon  Government,  I  have,  though  un- 
asked, been  your  solicitor  there. 

Mas  Richland.  Sir,  I'm  infinitely  obliged  to  your 
intentions.  But  my  guardian  has  employed  another 
gentleman,  who  assures  him  of  success. 

Sir  William.  Who,  the  important  little  man  that 
Visits  here  ?  Trust  me,  madam,  he's  quite  contempti- 
ble among  men  in  power,  and  utterly  unable  to  serve 
you.  Mr.  Lofty 's  promises  are  much  better  known 
to  people  of  fashion  than  his  person,  I  assure  you. 

i  Richland.   How  have  we  been  deceived  !     As 
sure  as  can  be,  here  he  comes. 

Sir  William.  Dues  he?     Remember  I'm  to  con- 


136  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

tinue  unknown.     My  return  to  England  has  not  as  yet 
been  made  public.     With  what  impudence  he  enters! 

Enter  Lofty . 

Lofty.  Let  the  chariot — let  my  chariot  drive  off: 
I'll  visit  to  his  Grace's  in  a  chair.  Miss  Richland 
here  before  me  1  Punctual,  as  usual,  to  the  calls  of 
humanity.  I'm  very  sorry,  madam,  things  of  this 
kind  should  happen,  especially  to  a  man  I  have  shewn 
every  where,  and  carried  amongst  us  as  a  particular 
acquaintance. 

Miss  Richland.  I  find,  sir,  you  have  the  art  of 
making  the  misfortunes  of  others  your  own. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  what  can  a  private  man 
like  me  do?  One  man  can't  do  every  thing;  and 
then,  I  do  so  much  in  this  way  every  day.  Let  me 
see — something  considerable  might  be  done  for  him 
by  subscription  ;  it  could  not  fail  if  I  carried  the  list. 
I'll  undertake  to  set  down  a  brace  of  dukes,  two 
dozen  lords,  and  half  the  Lower  House,  at  my  own 
peril. 

SirWilliam.  And,  after  all,  it's  more  than  proba- 
ble, sir,  he  might  reject  the  offer  of  such  powerful 
patronage. 

Lofty.  Then,  madam,  what  can  we  do?  You 
know  I  never  make  promises.  In  truth,  I  once  or 
twice  tried  to  do  something  with  him  in  the  way  of 
business ;  but  as  I  often  told  his  uncle,  Sir  William 
Honeywood,  the  man  was  utterly  impracticable. 

Sir  William.  His  uncle !  then  that  gentleman,  I 
suppose,  is  a  particular  friend  jf  yours. 

Lofty.  Meaning  me,  sir? — Yes,  madam,  as.I  often 
said,  My  dear  Sir  William,  you  are  sensible  I  would 
do  any  thing,  as  far  as  my  poor  interest  goes,  to  serve 
your  family  :  but  what  can  be  done  ?  there's  no  pro- 
curing first-rate  places  for  ninth-rate  abilities. 

Miss  Richland.  1  have  heard  of  Sir  William  Honey- 
wood  ;  he's  abroad  in  employment :  he  confided  in 
your  judgment,  I  suppose? 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  137 

Lofty.  Why,  yes  madam,  I  believe  Sir  William 
had  some  reason  to  confide  in  my  judgment — one 
little  reason,  perhaps. 

Miss  Richland.  Tray,  sir  what  was  if! 

Lofty.  Why,  madam — but  let  it  go  no  farther — it 
was  1  procured  him  his  place. 

Sir  William.  Did  you,  sir? 

Lofty.  Either  you  or  I,  sir. 

Miss  Richland.  This,  Mr.  Lofty,  was  very  kind 
indeed. 

Lofty.  I  did  love  him,  to  be  sure;  he  had  some 
amusing  qualities;  no  man  was  fitter  to  be  a  toast- 
master  to  a  club,  or  had  a  better  head. 

Mi>s  Richland.  A  better  head  1 

lofty.  Ay,  at  a  bottle.  To  be  sure  he  was  as  dull 
as  a  choice  spirit ;  but  hang  it,  he  was  grateful,  very 
grateful  ;  and  gratitude  hides  a  multitude  of  faults. 

Sir  William.  He  might  have  reason,  perhaps.  His 
place  is  pretty  considerable,  I'm  told. 

Lofty.  A  trifle,  a  mere  trifle  among  us  men  of 
business.  The  truth  is,  he  wanted  dignity  to  fill  up  a 
greater. 

Sir  William.  Dignity  of  person  do  you  mean,  sir"! 
I'm  told  he's  much  about  my  size  and  figure,  sir? 

Lofty.  Ay,  tall  enough  for  a  marching  regiment ; 
but  then  he  wanted  a  something — a  consequence  of 
form — a  kind  of  a — 1  believe  the  lady  perceives  my 
meaning. 

Miss  Richland.  Oh,  perfectly!  you  courtiers  can 
do  any  thing,  I  see. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  all  this  is  but  a  mere  ex- 
change ;  we  do  greater  things  for  one  another  every 
day.  Why,  as  thus,  now:  Let  me  suppose  you  the 
First  Lord  of  the  Treasury  ;  you  have  an  employment 
in  you  that  I  want — I  have  a  place  in  me  that  you 
want;  do  me  here,  do  you  there:  interest  of  both 
sides,  few  words,  flat,  done  and  done,  and  it's  over. 

SbrWilliam.  A  thought  strikes  roc.  (Aside.)  Now 
you  mention  Sir  William  Honeywood,  madam,  and 
as  he  seems,  sir,  as?  acquaintance  of  yours,  you'l.  be 


133  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

glad  to  hear  he  is  arrived  from  Italy :  I  had  it  from  a 
friend  who  knows  him  as  well  as  he  does  me,  and  you 
may  depend  on  my  information. 

Lefty.  (Aside.)  The  devil  he  is  !  If  I  had  known 
that,  we  should  not  have  been  quite  so  well  ac- 
quainted. 

Sir  William.  He  is  certainly  returned ;  and  as  this 
gentleman  is  a  friend  of  yours,  he  can  be  of  signal 
service  to  us,  by  introducing  me  to  him :  there  are 
some  papers  relative  to  your  affairs  that  require  de- 
spatch, and  his  inspection. 

Miss  Richland.  This  gentleman,  Mr.  Lofty,  is  a 
person  employed  in  my  affairs — I  know  you'll  serve  us. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  I  live  but  to  serve  you. 
Sir  William  shall  even  wait  upon  him,  if  you  think 
proper  to  command  it. 

Sir  William.  That  would  be  quite  unnecessary. 

Lofty.  Well,  we  must  introduce  you  then.  Call 
upon  me — let  me  see — ay,  in  two  days. 

Sir  William.  Now,  or  the  opportunity  will  be  lost 
for  ever. 

Lofty.  Well,  if  it  must  be  now,  now  let  it  be  ;  but, 
damn  it,  that's  unfortunate  :  My  Lord  Grig's  cursed 
Pensacola  business  comes  on  this  very  hour,  and  I'm 
engaged  to  attend — another  time 

Sir  William.  A  short  letter  to  Sir  William  will  do. 

Lofty,  You  shall  have  it ;  yet,  in  my  opinion,  a 
letter  is  a  very  bad  way  of  going  to  work ;  face  to 
face,  that's  my  way. 

Sir  William.  The  letter,  sir,  will  do  quite  as  well. 

Lofty.  Zounds !  sir,  do  you  pretend  to  direct  me  1 
direct  me  in  the  business  of  office'?  Do  you  know 
me,  sir  1  who  am  I  ? 

Miss  Richland.  Dear  Mr.  Lofty,  this  request  is  not 
so  much  his  as  mine;  if  my  commands — but  you 
despise  my  power. 

Lofty.  Delicate  creature  ! — your  commands  could 
even  control  a  debate  at  midnight :  to  a  power  so 
constitutional,  I  am  all  obedience  and  tranquillity. 
He  shall   have  a  letter :    where  is  my   secretary  1 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  139 

Dubardieu  !  And  yet,  I  protest,  I  don't  like  this  way 
of  doing  business.  I  think  if  I  first  spoke  to  Sir 
William — but  you  will  have  it  so. 

[Exit  with  Miss  Richland. 
Sir  William.  (Alone.)  Ha!  ha!  ha!  This  too  is 
one  of  my  nephew's  hopeful  associates.  O  vanity ! 
thou  constant  deceiver,  how  do  all  thy  efforts  to  exalt 
serve  but  to  sink  us  !  Thy  false  colourings,  like  those 
employed  to  heighten  beauty,  only  seem  to  mend 
that  bloom  which  they  contribute  to  destroy.  I'm 
not  displeased  at  this  interview:  exposing  this  fellow's 
impudence  to  the  contempt  it  deserves,  mnry  be  of  use 
to  my  design  ;  at  least,  if  he  can  reflect,  it  will  be  of 
use  to  himself. 

Enter  Jarvis. 

How  now,  Jarvis,  where's  your  master,  my  nephew  1 

Jurvis.  At  his  wit's  end.'I  believe  :  he's  scarce  got- 
ten out  of  one  scrape,  but  he's  running  his  head  into 
another. 

Sir  William.  How  so? 

Jarris.  The  house  has  but  just  been  cleared  of  the 
bailiff's,  and  now  he's  again  engaging,  tooth  and  nail, 
in  assisting  old  Croaker's  son  to  patch  up  a.  clandestine 
match  with  the  young  lady  that  passes  in  the  house  for 
his  sister. 

Sir  William.  Ever  busy  to  serve  others. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  any  body  but  himself.  The  young  cou- 
ple, it  seems,  are  just  setting  out  for  Scotland  ;  and  he 
supplies  them  with  money  for  the  journey. 

Sir  William.  Money !  how  is  he  able  to  supply 
others,  who  has  scarce  any  for  himself? 

Jarvis.  Why,  there  it  is  :  he  has  no  money,  that's 
true  ;  but  then,  as  he  never  said  No  to  any  request  in 
his  life,  he  has  given  them  a  bill,  drawn  by  a  friend 
of  his  upon  a  merchant  in  the  city,  which  lain  to  get 
changed  ;  for  you  must  know  that  I  am  to  go  with 
'.hem  to  Scotland  myself. 

Sir  William.  How  1 

Jarvis.   It  seems  the  young  gentleman  is  oMiged  to 


140  THE  GOOD  NATURE D  MAN. 

take  a  different  road  from  his  mistress,  as  he  is  to  cail 
upon  r.n  uncle  of  his  that  lives  out  of  the  way,  in 
order  to  prepare  a  place  for  their  reception  when  they 
return;  so  they  have  borrowed  me  from  my  master, 
as  the  properest  person  to  attend  the  young  lady  down. 

Sir  William.  To  the  land  of  matrimony  !  A  pleasant 
journey,  Jarvis. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  but  I'm  only  to  have  all  the  fatigues  on't. 

Sir  William.  Well,  it  may  be  shorter,  and  less  fa- 
tiguing, than  you  imagine.  I  know  but  too  much  of 
the  yonng  lady's  family  and  connexions,  whom  I  have 
seen  abroad.  I  have  also  discovered  that  Miss  Rich- 
land is  not  indifferent  to  my  thoughtless  nephew ;  and 
will  end-eavour,  though  I  fear  in  vain,  to  establish  that 
connexion.  But  come,  the  letter  I  wait  for  must  be 
almost  finished  ;  I'll  let  you  farther  into  my  intentions 
in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    FOURTH. 

Scene—  croaker's  house. 

Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Well,  sure  the  devil's  in  me  of  late,  for  run 
niug  my  head  into  such  defiles,  as  nothing  but  a  ge- 
nius like  my  own  could  draw  me  from.  I  was  formerly 
contented  to  husband  out  my  places  and  pensions  with 
some  degree  of  frugality  ;  but  curse  it,  of  late  I  have 
given  away  the  whole  Court  Register  in  less  time  than 
they  could  print  the  title-page  :  yet,  hang  it,  why  scru- 
ple a  lie  or  two  to  come  at  a  fine  girl,  when  1  every 
day  tell  a  thousand  for  nothing?  Ha!  Honeywood 
here  before  me.  Could  Miss  Richland  have  set  him 
at  liberty  1 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  abroad  again, 
find  my  concurrence  was  not  necessary  in  ysur  un- 


«= 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  141 

fortunate  affairs.  I  had  put  things  in  a  train  to  do 
your  business ;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to  say  what  I  in- 
tended doing. 

Honeywood.  It  was  unfortunate,  indeed,  sir.  But 
what  adds  to  my  uneasiness  is,  that  while  you  seem  to 
be  acquainted  with  my  misfortune,  I  myself  continue 
still  a  stranger  to  my  benefactor. 

Lofty.  How  !  not  know  the  friend  that  served  you  1 

Honey  wood.  Can't  guess  at  the  person. 

Lofty.  Inquire. 

Honey  wood.  I  have  ;  but  all  I  can  learn  is,  that  he 
chooses  to  remain  concealed,  and  that  all  inquiry  must 
be  fruitless. 

Lofty.  Must  be  fruitless  1 

Honeywood.  Absolutely  fruitless. 

Lofty.  Sure  of  that  1 

Honeywood.  Very  sure. 

Lofty.  Then  I'll  be  damn'd  if  you  shall  ever  know 
it  from  me. 

1  Imieywood.  How,  sir  1 

Lofty.  1  suppose  now,  Mr.  Honeywood,  you  think 
my  rent-roll  very  considerable,  and  that  I  have  vast 
sums  of  money  to  throw  away  ;  I  know  you  do.  The 
world,  to  be  sure,  says  such  things  of  me. 

Honeywood.  The  world,  by  what  I  learn,  is  no 
stranger  to  your  generosity.    But  where  does  this  tend"! 

Lofty.  To  nothing — nothing  in  the  world.  The 
town,  to  be  sure,  when  it  makes  such  a  thing  as  me 
the  subject  of  conversation,  has  asserted,  that  I  never 
yet  patronized  a  man  of  merit. 

Honeywood.  I  have  heard  instances  to  the  contrary, 
even  from  yourself. 

Lofty.  Yes,  Honeywood  ;  and  there  are  instances 
to  the  contrary,  that  you  shall  never  hear  from  myself. 

Honeywood.  Ha!  dear  sir,  permit  me  to  ask  you 
but  one  question. 

Lofty.  Sir,  ask  me  no  questions  ;  I  say,  sir,  ask  me 
no  questions  ;  I'll  be  damn'd  if  1  answer  them. 

Honeywood.  I  will  ask  no  farther.  My  friend!  my 
benefactor  !  it  is,  it  must  be  here,  that  1  am  indebted 


1-12  THE  GOOD-NAfURED  MAN. 

for  freedom — for  honour.  Yes,  thou  worthiest  of  men, 
from  the  beginning  1  suspected  it,  but  was  afraid  to 
return  thanks ;  which,  if  undeserved,  might  seem 
reproaches. 

Lofty.  I  protest  I  do  not  understand  all  this,  Mr. 
Honeywood ;  you  treat  me  very  cavalierly.  I  do 
assure  you,  sir — Blood,  sir,  can't  a  man  be  permitted 
to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  his  own  feelings,  without  all 
this  parade  ? 

Honeywood,  Nay,  do  not  attempt  to  conceal  an 
action  that  adds  to  your  honour.  Your  looks,  your 
air,  your  manner,  all  confess  it. 

Lofty.  Confess  it,  sir !  torture  itself,  sir,  shall  never 
bring  me  to  confess  it.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I  have 
admitted  you  upon  terms  of  friendship.  Don't  let  us 
fall  out;  make  me  happy,  and  let  this  be  buried  in 
oblivion.  You  know  1  hate  ostentation  ;  you  know  I 
do.  Come,  come,  Honeywood,  you  know  I  always 
loved  to  be  a  friend,  and  not  a  patron.  I  beg  this 
may  make  no  kind  of  distance  between  us.  Come, 
come,  you  and  I  must  be  more  familiar — indeed  we 
must. 

Honeywood.  Heavens !  Can  I  ever  repay  such 
friendship  1  Is  there  any  way  1  Thou  best  of  men, 
can  I  ever  return  the  obligation  1 

Lofty.  A  bagatelle,  a  mere  bagatelle !  But  I  see 
your  heart  is  labouring  to  be  grateful.  You  shall  be 
grateful.     It  would  be  cruel  to  disappoint  you. 

Honeywood.  How  1  teach  me  the  manner.  Is  there 
any  way  1 

Lofty.  From  this  moment  you're  mine.  Yes,  my 
friend,  you  shall  know  it — I'm  in  love. 

Honeywood.  And  can  I  assist  you  ? 

Lojty.    Nobody  so  well. 

Honeywood.  In  what  manner  1  I'm  all  impatience. 

Lofty.  You  shall  make  love  for  me. 

Honeywood.  And  to  whom  shall  I  speak  in  your 
favour  1 

Lofty.  To  a  lady  with  whom  you  have  great  in- 
terest, I  assure  you — Miss  Richland. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 
Honeywood.  Miss  Richland ! 


143 


Lofty.  Yes,  Miss  Richland.  She  has  struck  the 
blow  up  to  the  hilt  in  my  bosom,  by  Jupiter! 

Doneywood-  Heavens !  was  ever  any  thing  more 
unfortunate  1    It  is  too  much  to  be  endured. 

Lofty.  Unfortunate,  indeed  !  And  yet  I  can  endure 
it,  till  you  have  opened  the  affair  to  her  for  me.  Be- 
tween ourselves,  I  think  she  likes  me.  I'm  not  apt 
to  boast,  but  I  think  she  does. 

Doneywood.  Indeed  !  But  do  you  know  the  person 
you  apply  to  ? 

Loltjj.  Yes,  I  know  you  are  her  friend  and  mine : 
that's  enough.  I'o  you,  therefore,  I  commit  the  suc- 
cess of  my  passion.  I'll  say  no  more,  let  friendship 
do  the  rest.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  if  at  any  time  my 
little  interest  can  be  of  service — but,  hang  it,  I'll  make 
no  premises  :  you  know  my  interest  is  yours  at  any 
time.  No  apologies,  my  friend,  1*11  not  be  answered  ; 
it  shall  be  »o.  [Exit. 

Doneywood .  Open,  eenerous,  unsuspecting  n,an  ! 
He  little  thinks  that  I  love  her  too  ;  and  with  such  an 
ardent  passion  !  But  then  it  was  ever  but  a  vain  and 
hopeless  one;  my  torment,  my  persecution!  What 
shall  I  do?  Love,  friendship;  a  hopeless  passion,  a 
deserving  friend  !  Love  that  has  been  my  tormentor ; 
a  friend,  that  has  perhaps  distressed  himself  to  serve 
me.  It  shall  be  so.  Yes,  I  will  discard  the  fondling 
hope  from  my  bosom;  and  exert  all  my  influence  in 
his  favour.  And  yet  to  see  her  in  the  possession  of 
another  ! — Insupportable  !  But  then  to  betray  a  gene- 
rous, trusting  friend  !  —  Worse,  worse  !  Yes,  I'm 
resolved.  Let  me  but  be  the  instrument  of  their 
happiness,  and  then  quit  a  country,  where  I  must  for 
ever  despair  of  finding  my  own.  [  Ea  it. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Garnet,  who  carries  a  milliner  s  box. 

Olivia.  Dear  me,  I  wish  this  journey  were  over. 
No  news  of  Jarvis  yet  1  I  believe  the  old  peevish 
creature  delays  purely  to  vex  me. 


144  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

Garnet.  Why,  to  be  sure,  madam,  I  did  hear  bim 
say,  a  little  snubbing  before  marriage  would  teach 
you  to  bear  it  the  better  afterwards. 

Olivia.  To  be  gone  a  full  hour,  though  he  had  only 
to  get  a  bill  changed  in  the  city!  How  provoking! 

Garnet.  I'll  lay  my  life,  Mr.  Leontine,  that  had 
twice  as  much  to  do,  is  setting  off  by  this  time  from 
his  inn :  and  here  you  are  left  behind. 

Olivia.  Well,  let  us  be  prepared  for  his  coming, 
however.  Are  you  sure  you  have  omitted  nothing, 
Garnet? 

Garnet.  Not  a  stick,  madam ;  all's  here.  Yet  I 
wish  you  could  take  the  white  and  silver  to  be  mar- 
ried in.  It's  the  worst  luck  in  the  world  in  any  thing 
but  white.  I  knew  one  Bett  Stubb3  of  our  town, 
that  was  married  in  red  ;  and  as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs, 
the  bridegroom  and  she  had  a  miff  before  morning. 

Olivia.  No  matter,  I'm  all  impatience  till  we  are 
out  of  the  house. 

Garnet.  Bless  me,  madam,  I  had  almost  forgot  the 
wedding  ring!  The  sweet  little  thing.  I  don't  think 
it  would  go  on  my  little  finger.  And  what  if  I  put 
in  a  gentleman's  night-cap,  in  case  of  necessity, 
madam  ? — But  here's  Jarvis. 

Enter  Jarvis. 

Olivia.  O  Jarvis,  are  you  come  at  last !  We  have 
been  ready  this  half  hour.  Now  let's  be  going.  Let 
us  fly! 

Jarvis.  Ay,  to  Jericho  ;  for  we  shall  have  no  going 
to  Scotland  this  bout,  I  fancy. 

Olivia.  How!  what's  the  matter? 

Jarvis.  Money,  money  is  the  matter,  madam.  We 
have  got  no  money.  What  the  plague  do  you  send 
me  of  your  fool's  errand  for  ?  My  master's  bill  upon 
the  city  is  not  worth  a  rush.  Here  it  is  ;  Mrs.  Gar- 
net may  pin  up  her  hair  with  it. 

Olivia.  Undone  !  How  could  Honeyvvood  serve  U9 
so  ?     What  shall  we  do  ?     Can't  we  go  without  it  1 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  145 

Jarvis.  Go  to  Scotland  without  money  !  To  Scot- 
land without  money  !  Lord  !  how  some  people  under- 
stand geography !  We  might  as  well  set  sail  for 
Patagonia  upon  a  cork-jacket. 

Olivia.  Such  a  disappointment!  What  a  base  in- 
sincere man  was  your  master,  to  serve  us  in  this  man- 
ner !  Is  this  his  good-nature  ? 

Jarvis.  Nay,  don't  talk  ill  of  my  master,  madam  ; 
I  won't  bear  to  hear  any  body  talk  ill  of  him  but 
myself. 

Garnet.  Bless  us !  now  I  think  on't,  madam,  you 
need  not  be  under  any  uneasiness:  I  saw  Mr.  Leon- 
tine  receive  forty  guineas  from  his  father  just  before 
he  set  out,  and  he  can't  yet  have  left  the  inn.  A 
short  letter  will  reach  him  there. 

Olivia.  Well  remembered,  Garnet;  I'll  write  im- 
mediately. How's  this?  Bless  me,  my  hand  trembles 
so,  I  can't  write  a  word.  Do  you  write,  Garnet ; 
and,  upon  second  thought,  it  will  be  better  from  you. 

Garnet.  Truly,  madam,  I  write  and  indite  but 
poorly.  I  never  was  cute  at  my  learning.  But  I'll 
do  what  I  ca-n  to  please  you.  Let  me  see.  All  out 
of  m.y  own  head,  1  suppose? 

Olivia.  Whatever  you  please. 

Garnet.  (Writing.)  'Muster  Cioaker' — Twenty 
guineas,  madam  ? 

Olivia.  Ay,  twenty  will  do. 

Garnet.  '  At  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  till  called  for. — 
Expedition — Will  be  blown  up — All  of  a  flame — 
Quick  despatch — Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love.' — I 
conclude  it,  madam,  with  Cupid :  I  love  to  see  a 
love-letter  end  like  poetry. 

Olivia.  Well,  well,  what  you  please,  any  thing. 
But  how  shall  we  send  it  ?  1  can  trust  none  of  the 
servants  of  this  family. 

Garnet.  Odso,  madam,  Mr.  Honeywood's  butler  is 
in  the  next  room  :  he's  a  dear,  sweet  man  ;  he'll  do 
any  thing  for  me. 

Janis.  He !  the  dog,  he'll  certainly  commit  some 
blunder.     He's  drunk  and  sober  ten  times  a-day. 
H 


143  THE  GOOD  NAT URED  MAN. 

Olivia,  No  matter.  Fly  Garnet:  any  body  we 
can  trust  will  do.  [Exit  Garnet]  Well,  jarvis,  now 
we  can  have  nothing  more  to  interrupt  us  ;  you  may 
take  ut>  the  things,  and  carry  them  on  to  the  inn. 
Have  you  no  hands,  Jarvis"? 

Jarvis.  Soft  and  fair,  young  lady.  You  that  are 
going  to  be  married  think  things  can  never  be  done 
too  fast;  but  we,  that  are  old,  and  know  what  we  are 
about,  must  elope  methodically,  madam. 

Olivia.  Well,  sure,  if  my  indiscretions  were  to  be 
done  over  again 

Jarvis.  My  life  for  it,  you  would  do  them  ten  times 
over 

Olivia.  Why  will  you  talk  so  1  If  you  knew  how 
unhappy  they  make  me 

Jaivis.  Very  unhappy,  no  doubt:  I  was  once  just 
as  unhappy  when  1  was  going  to  be  married  myself. 
I'll  tell  you  a.  story  about  that 

Olivia.  A  story  !  when  I  am  all  impatience  to  be 
away.     Was  there  ever  such  a  dilatory  creature  ! 

Jarvis.  Well,  madam,  if  we  must  march,  why  we 
will  march,  that's  all.  Though,  odds-bobs,  we  have 
still  forgot  one  thing  we  should  never  travel  without 
— a  case  of  good  razors,  and  a  box  of  shaving  powder. 
But  no  matter,  I  believe  we  shall  be  pretty  well 
shaved  by  the  way.  [Going. 

Enter  Garnet. 

Garnet.  Undone,  undone,  madam.  Ah,  Mr.  Jar- 
vis, you  said  right  enough.  As  sure  as  death,  Mr. 
Honeywood's  rogue  of  a  drunken  butler  dropped  the 
letter  before  he  went  ten  yards  from  the  door. 
There's  old  Croaker  has  just  picked  it  up,  and  is  this 
moment  reading  it  to  himself  in  the  hall. 

Olivia.  Unfortunate  !  we  shall  be  discovered. 

Garnet.  No,  madam  ;  don't  be  uneasy,  he  con 
make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  it.  To  be  sure,  he  looks 
as  if  he  was  broke  loose  from  Bedlam,  about  it,  but 
he  can't  find  what  it  means  for  all  that.  O  lud,  he 
is  coming  this  way  all  in  the  horrors ! 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  147 

Olivia.  Then  let  us  leave  the  house  this  instant, 
for  fear  he  should  ask  farther  questions.  In  the  mean 
time,  Garnet,  do  you  write  and  send  off  J"^ 
another.  L 

Enter  Croaker. 
Croaker.  Death  and  destruction  !  Are  all  the  hov 
rors  of  air,  fire,  and  water,  to  be  levelled  only  at  me' 
Am  I   only  to  be  singled  out  for   gunoowaer  plots, 
combustibles,  and  conflagrations'!     Here  it  is-^n 
incendiary  letter  dropped   at  my  door.       Io  Music. 
Croaker,  these  with  speed.'     Ay,   ay,  plain  enougft 
the  direction  :  all  in  the  genuine  incendiary  spelling, 
and  as  cramp  as  the  devil.    '  With  speed.     Oh,  con- 
found your  speed  !   But  let  me   read  it  once  more. 
(■Beads)    '  Muster  Croaker,  as  sone  as  yowe  see  this, 
leve  twenty  gunnes  at  the  bar  of  the    lalboot  tell 
caled  for,  or  yowe  and  yower  experetion  wil    be  al 
blown  up.'     Ah,  but  too   plain!     Blood   and    gun- 
powder in  every  line  of  it.     Blown  up     murderous 
dog!     All  blown  up!  Heavens!  what  have  I  and 
my  poor  family  done,  to  be  all  blown  up"!  {Reads) 
'  Our  pockets  are  low,  and  money  we  must   have. 
Ay.  there's  the  reason  ;  they'll  blow  us  up,  because 
they  have  got  low  pockets.      {Reads)  '  It  is  but  a 
short  time  you  have  to  consider  ;  for  if  this  takes 
wind,  the  house  will  quickly  be  all  of  a  flame.     Inhu- 
man monsters  !  blow  us  up,  and  then  burn  us  I     1  lie 
earthquake  at  Lisbon  was  but  a  bonfire  to  it.   {heads) 
'  Make  quick  despatch,  and  so  no  more  at  present. 
But  may  Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love,   go  with  you 
wherever  you  go.'     The  little  god   of  love  !  Cupid, 
the  little  god  of  love,  go  with  me !— So  you  to  the 
devil,  you  and  your  little  Cupid  together,     lm  so 
frightened.  I  scarce  know  whether  1  sit,  stand,  or  go. 
Perhaps  this  moment  I'm  treading  on  lighted  matches, 
blazino  brimstone,  and  barrels  of  gunpowder.      1  hey 
are  preparing  to  blow  me  up  into  the  clouds.  Murder 
We  shall  be  all  burnt  in  our  beds;  we  shall  bo  all 
burnt  in  our  beds  ! 


148  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

Enter  Miss  Richland. 

Miss  Richland.  Lord,  sir,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Croaker.  Murder's  the  matter.  We  shall  be  all 
blown  up  in  our  beds  before  morning. 

Miss  Richland.  I  hope  not,  sir. 

Croaker.  What  signifies  what  you  hope,  madam, 
when  I  have  a  certificate  of  it  here  in  my  hand  ? 
Will  nothing  alarm  my  family'!  Sleeping  and  eating 
— sleeping  and  eating  is  the  only  work  from  morn- 
ing till  night  in  my  house.  My  insensible  crew 
could  sleep  though  rocked  by  an  earthquake,  and 
fry  beef-steaks  at  a  volcano. 

Miss  Richland.  But,  sir,  you  have  alarmed  them  so 
often  already  ;  we  have  nothing  but  earthquakes, 
famines,  plagues,  and  mad  dogs  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end.  You  remember,  sir,  it  is  not  above  a 
month  ago,  you  assured  us  of  a  conspiracy  among 
the  bakers  to  poison  us  in  our  bread ;  and  so  kept  the 
whole  family  a  week  upon  potatoes. 

Croaker.  And  potatoes  were  too  good  for  them. 
But  why  do  I  stand  talking  here  with  a  girl,  when  I 
should  be  facing  the  enemy  without  ?  Here,  John, 
Kicodemus,  search  the  house.  Look  into  the  cellars, 
to  see  if  there  be  any  combustibles  below  ;  and  above, 
in  the  apartments,  that  no  matches  be  thrown  in  at 
the  windows.  Let  all  the  fires  be  put  out,  and  let 
the  engine  be  drawn  out  in  the  yard,  to  play  upon 
the  house  in  case  of  necessity.  [L'xit. 

Miss  Richland.  (Alone.)  What  can  he.  mean  by 
all  this?  Yet  why  should  I  inquire,  when  he  alarms 
us  in  this  manner  almost  every  day.  But  Honey  wood 
has  desired  an  interview  with  me  in  private.  What 
can  he  mean  ?  or  rather,  what  means  this  palpitation 
at  his  approach?  It  is  the  first  time  he  ever  shewed 
any  thing  in  his  conduct  that  seemed  particular.  Sure 
he  cannot  mean  to — but  he's  here. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  140 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeywood.  I  presumed  to  solicit  this  interview, 
madam,'  before  I  left  town,  to  be  permitted- 

Miss  Richland.  Indeed  !  leaving  town,  sir? 

Honeywood.  Yes,  madam,  perhaps  the  kingdom. 
I  have  presumed,  I  say,  to  desire  the  favour  of  this 
interview,  in  order  to  disclose  something  which  our 
long  friendship  prompts.     And  yet  my  fears 

Miss  Richhind.  His  fears  !  what  are  his  fears  to 
mine!  (Aside.)  We  have,  indeed,  been  long  ac- 
quainted, sir ;  very  long.  If  I  remember,  our  first 
meeting  was  at  the  French  ambassador's.  Do  you 
recollect  how  you  were  pleased  to  rally  me  upon  my 
complexion  there? 

Honeywood.  Perfectly,  madam :  I  presumed  to 
reprove  you  for  painting  ;  but  your  warmer  blushes 
soon  convinced  the  company  that  the  colouring  was 
all  from  nature. 

Miss  Richland.  And  yet  you  only  meant  it  in  your 
good-natured  way,  to  make  me  pay  a  compliment  to 
myself.  In  the  same  manner,  you  danced  that  night 
with  the  most  awkward  woman  in  company,  because 
you  saw  nobody  else  would  take  her  out. 

Honeywood.  Yes ;  and  was  rewarded  the  next 
night  by  dancing  with  the  finest  woman  in  company, 
whom  every  body  wished  to  take  out. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  sir,  if  you  thought  so  then,  I 
fear  your  judgment  has  since  corrected  the  errors  of  a 
first  impression.  We  generally  shew  to  most  ad- 
vantage at  first.  Our  sex  are  like  poor  tradesmen, 
that  put  all  their  best  goods  to  be  seen  at  the  win- 
dows. 

Honeywood.  The  first  impression,  madam,  did  in- 
deed deceive  me.  1  expected  to  find  a  woman  with 
all  the  faults  of  conscious  flattered  beauty  :  I  ex- 
pected to  find  her  vain  and  insolent.  Hut  every  day 
has  since  taught  me,  that  it  is  possible  to  possess 
sense  without  pride,  and  beauty  without  affectation. 

Miss  Richland.  This,  sir,  is  a  style  very  unusual 


150  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

with  Mr.  Honey  wood  ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
why  he  thus  attempts  to  increase  that  vanity,  which 
his  own  lessons  have  taught  me  to  despise. 

Honeywood.  I  ask  pardon,  madam.  Yet,  from  our 
long  friendship,  I  presumed  I  might  "have  some  right 
to  offer,  without  offence,  what  you  may  refuse  without 
offending. 

Miss  Richland.  Sir !  I  beg  you'd  reflect :  though  I 
fear,  I  shall  scarce  have  any  power  to  refuse  a  request 
of  yours,  yet  you  may  be  precipitate  :  consider,  sir. 

Honeywood.  I  own  my  rashness ;  but  as  I  plead 
the  cause  of  friendship,  of  one  who  loves — don't  be 
alarmed,  madam— -who  loves  you  with  the  most 
ardent  passion,  whose  whole  happiness  is  placed  in 
you- 


Miss  Richiand.  I  fear,  sir,  I  shall  never  find  whom 
you  mean,  by  this  description  of  him. 

Honeywood.  Ah,  madam,  it  but  too  plainly  points 
him  out!  though  he  should  be  too  humble  himself  to 
urge  his  pretensions,  or  you  too  modest  to  understand 
'them. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  it  would  be  affectation  any 
longer  to  pretend  ignorance ;  and  I  will  own,  sir,  I 
have  long  been  prejudiced  in  his  favour.  It  was  but 
natural  to  wish  to  make  his  heart  mine,  as  be  seemed 
himself  ignorant  of  its  value. 

Honeywood.  I  see  she  always  loved  him.  (Aside.) 
I  find,  madam,  you're  already  sensible  of  his  worth, 
his  passion.  How  happy  is  my  friend  to  be  the 
favourite  of  one  with  such  sense  to  distinguish  merit, 
ind  such  beauty  to  reward  it ! 

Miss  Richland.  Your  friend,  sir!  what  friend  : 

Honeywood.  My  best  friend — my  friend  Mr.  Lofty, 
madam. 

Miss  Richland,  He,  sir? 

Honeywood-.  Yes,  he,  madam.  He  is,  indeed,  what 
your  warmest  wishes  might  have  formed  him  ;  and  to 
his  other  qualities  he  adds  that  of  the  most  passionate 
regard  for  you. 

"Miss  Richland.  Amazement! — No  more  of  this,  I 
beg  you,  sir. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  151 

Honeywood.  I  see  your  confusion,  madam,  and  know 
how  to  interpret  it.  And,  since  I  so  plainly  read 
the  language  of  your  heart,  shall  I  make  my  friend 
happy,  by  communicating  your  sentiments'! 

Miss  Richland.  By  no  means. 

Honeywood.  Excuse  me,  I  must ;  I  know  you  de- 
sire it. 

Miss  Richland.  Mr.  Honeywood,  let  me  tell  you, 
that  you  wrong  my  sentiments  and  yourself.  When 
I  first  applied  to  your  friendship,  I  expected  advice 
and  assistance  ;  but  now,  sir,  I  see  that  it  is  in  vain  to 
expect  happiness  from  him,  who  has  been  so  bad  an 
economist  of  his  own ;  and  that  I  must  disclaim  his 
friendship  who  ceases  to  be  a  friend  to  himself. 

[Exit. 

Honeywood.  How  is  this?  she  has  confessed  she 
loved  him,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  part  in  displeasure. 
Can  I  have  done  any  thing  to  reproach  myself  with  ? 
Ko!  I  believe  not :  yet,  after  all,  these  things  should 
not  be  done  by  a  third  person  :  I  should  have  spared 
her  confusion.  My  friendship  carried  me  a  little 
too  far. 

Enter  Croaker,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and 
Mrs.  Croaker. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  And  so,  my  dear,  it's 
your  supreme  wish  that  1  should  be  quite  wretched 
upon  this  occasion  ?     Ila  !  ha  ! 

Croaker.  (Mimicking.)  Ha!  ha!  ha!  And  so,  my 
dear,  it's  your  supreme  pleasure  to  give  me  no  better 
consolation? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Positively,  my  dear ;  what  is  this  in- 
cendiary stuff  and  trumpery  to  me  ?  Our  house 
may  travel  through  the  air,  like  the  house  of  Loretto, 
for  aught  I  care,  if  I'm  to  be  miserable  in  it. 

Croaker.  Would  to  heaven  it  were  converted  into 
a  house  of  correction  for  your  benefit.  Have  we  not 
every  thing  to  alarm  us?  Perhaps  this  very  moment 
the  tragedy  is  beginning. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Then  let  us  reserve  our  distress  till 


1;>2  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

the  rising  of  the  curtain,  or  give  them  the   money 
they  want,  and  have  done  with  them. 

Croaker,  Give  them  my  money  ! — and  pray  what 
right  have  they  to  my  money. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  pray  what  right,  then,  have 
you  to  my  good-humour  ? 

Croaker.  And  so  your  good-humour  advises  me  to 
part  with  my  money  ?  W  hy,  then,  to  tell  your  good- 
humour  a  piece  of  my  mind,  I'd  sooner  part  with  my 
wife.  Here's  Mr.  Honeywood,  see  what  he'll  say  to  it. 
My  dear  Honeywood,  look  at  this  incendiary  letter 
dropped  at  my  door.  It  will  freeze  you  with  terror; 
and  yet  lovey  can  read  it — can  read  it,  and  laugh. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Yes,  and  so  will  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Croaker.  If  he  does,  I'll  suffer  to  be  hanged  the 
next  minute  in  the  rogue's  place,  that's  all. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Speak,  Air.  Honeywood  ;  is  there 
any  thing  more  foolish  than  my  husband's  fright  upon 
this  occasion.? 

Honeywood.  It  would  not  become  me  to  decide, 
madam  ;  but,  doubtless,  the  greatness  of  his  terrors 
now  will  but  invite  them  to  renew  their  villany 
another  time. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  I  told  you,  he'd  be  of  my  opinion. 

Croaker.  How,  sir !  Do  you  maintain  that  1  should 
lie  down  under  such  an  injury,  and  shew,  neither  by 
my  fears  nor  complaints,  that  I  have  something  of 
the  spirit  of  a  man  in  me"! 

Honeywood.  Pardon  me,  sir.  You  ought  to  make 
the  loudest  complaints,  if  you  desire  redress.  The 
surest  way  to  have  redress  is  to  be  earnest  in  the  pur- 
suit of  it. 

Croaker.  Ay,  whose  opinion  is  he  of  now  1 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  don't  you  think  that  laughing 
off  our  fears  is  the  best  way  ? 

Honeywood.  What  is  the  best,  madam,  few  can 
say  ;  but  I'll  maintain  it  to  be  a  very  wise  way. 

Croaker.  But  we're  talking  of  the  best  Surely  the 
best  way  is  to  face  the  enemy  in  the  field,  and  not 
ivait  till  he  plunders  us  in  our  very  bed-chamoer. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  153 

Iloncywood.  Why,  sir,  as  to  the  best,  that— that's  a 

verv  wise  way  too.  .  .      ,  ,        i 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  can  any  thing  be  more  absurd, 
than  to  double  our  distresses  by  our  apprehensions, 
and  put  it  in  the  power  of  every  low  fellow,  that  can 
scrawl  ten  words  of  wretched  spelling,  to  torment  us! 

Honeywood.  Without  doubt,  nothing  more  absurd. 

Croaker.  How  !  would  it  not  be  more  absurd  to 
despise  the  rattle  till  we  are  bit  by  the  snake; 

Honeywood.  Without  doubt,  pertectly  absurd. 

Croaker.  Then  you  are  of  my  opinion. 

Honeywood.  Entirely. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  you  reject  mine] 

Honeywood.  Heavens  forbid,  madam !  No,  sure 
no  reasoning  can  be  more  just  than  yours.  >V  e  ought 
certainly  to  despise  malice,  if  we  cannot  oppose  it,  and 
not  make  the  incendiary's  pen  as  fatal  to  our  repose 
as  the  highwayman's  pistol. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Oh,  then  you  think  I  m  quite  right  1 

Honeywood.   Perfectly  right. 

Croaker.  A  plague  of  plagues,  we  can  t  be  ooth 
rieht.  1  ought  to  be  sorry,  or  I  ought  to  be  glad. 
My  hat  must  be  on  my  head,  or  my  hat  must  be  oil. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Certainly,  in  two  opposite  opinions, 
if  one  be  perfectly  reasonable,  the  other  can  t  be  per- 

fectlv  right.  ,     ,    ,        .  ,  . 

Honeywood.  And  why  may  not  bo  h  be  right, 
madam!  Mr.  Croaker  in  earnestly  seeking  redress, 
ami  you  in  waiting  the  event  with  good-humour ;1 
Pray,  let  me  see  the  letter  again.  I  have  it.  1  his 
letter  requires  twenty  guineas  to  be  left  at  the  bar  ot 
the  Talbot  Inn.  If  it  be  indeed  an  incendiary  letter, 
what  if  you  and  I,  sir,  go  there  ;  and  when  the  writer 
comes  to  be  paid  his  expected  booty,  seize  him  1 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  it's  the  very  thing—the 
very  thing.  While  I  walk  by  the  door,  you  shall 
plant  yourself  in  ambush  near  the  bar ;  burst  out 
upon  the  miscreant  like  a  masked  battery  ;  extort  a 
confession  at  once,  and  so  hang  him  up  by  surprise. 
H  2 


154  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

Honeywood.  Yes,  but  I  would  not  choose  to  exer- 
cise too  much  severity.  It  is  my  maxim,  sir,  that 
crimes  generally  punish  themselves. 

Croaker.  Well,  but  we  may  upbraid  him  a  little, 
1  suppose?  (Ironicatly.) 

Honeywood.  Ay,  but  not  punish  him  too  rigidly. 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  leave  that  to  my  own  bene- 
volence. 

Honeywood.  Well,  I  do  ;  but  remember  that  uni- 
versal benevolence  is  the  first  law  of  nature. 

[Exeunt  Honeywood  and  Mrs.  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Yes  ;  and  my  universal  benevolence  will 
hang  the  dog,  if  he  had  as  many  necks  as  a  hydra. 


ACT  FIFTH. 

Scene — an  inn. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Jarvis. 
Olivia.  Well,  we  have  got  safe  to  the  inn,  however. 


Now,  if  the  po~t-chaise  were  ready- 

Jarvis.  The  horses  are  just  finishing  their  oats  ;  and, 
as  they  are  not  going  to  be  married,  they  choose  to 
take  their  own  time. 

Olivia.  You  are  for  ever  giving  wrong  motives  to 
my  impatience. 

Jarvis.  Be  as  impatient  as  you  will,  the  horses  must 
take  their  own  time ;  besides,  you  don't  consider  we 
have  got  no  answer  from  our  fellow-traveller  yet.  If 
we  hear  nothing  from  Sir.  Leontine,  we  have  only 
one  way  left  us. 

Olivia.   What  way  1 

Jarvis.  The  way  home  aaain. 

Olivia.  Not  so.  I  have  made  a  resolution  to  go 
uni  nothing" shall  induce  me  to  break  it. 

Jarvis.  Ay ;  resolutions  are  well  kept,  wheo  they 


THE  COO&NATURED  MAN.  155 

jump  with  inclination.  However,  I'll  go  hasten  things 
without.  And  I'll  call,  too,  at  the  bar  to  see  if  any 
thing  should  be  left  for  us  there.  Don't  be  in  such 
a  plaguy  hurry,  madam,  and  we  shall  go  the  faster, 
I  promise  you.  [Exit  Jarvis. 

Enter  Landlady. 

Landlady.  What !  Solomon,  why  don't  you  move? 
Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Lamb  there.  Will  nobody 
answer?  To  the  Dolphin;  quick.  The  Angel  has 
been  outrageous  this  half  hour.  Did  your  ladyship 
call,  madam? 

Olivia.  No,  madam. 

Landlady.  I  find  as  you  are  for  Scotland,  madam 
— but  that's  no  business  of  mine ;  married,  or  not 
married,  I  ask  no  questions.  To  be  sure,  we  had  a 
sweet  little  couple  set  off  from  this  two  days  ago  for 
the  same  place.  The  gentleman,  foi  a  tailor,  was,  to 
be  sure,  as  fine  a  spoken  tailor  as  ever  blew  froth 
from  a  full  pot.  And  the  young  lady  so  bashful,  it 
was  near  half  an  hour  before  we  could  get  her  to 
finish  a  pint  of  raspberry  between  us. 

Olivia.  But  this  gentleman  and  I  are  not  going  to 
be  married,  1  assure  you. 

Landlady.  May  be  not.  That's  no  business  of 
mine :  for  certain  Scotch  marriages  seldom  turn  out 
well.  There  was,  of  my  own  knowledge,  Miss  Mac- 
fag,  that  married  her  father's  footman.  Alack-a-day, 
she  and  her  husband  soon  parted,  and  now  keep  se- 
parate cellars  in  Hedge-lane. 

Olivia.  (Aside.)  A  very  pretty  picture  of  what  lies 
before  me ! 

Enter  Leontine. 

Leontine.  My  dear  Olivia,  my  anxiety,  till  you 
were  out  of  danger,  was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  I 
■•ould  not  help  coming  to  see  you  set  out,  though  it 
ixposes  us  to  a  discovery. 

Olivia.  May  every  thing  you  do  prove  as  fortunate. 
Indeed,  Leontine,  we  have  been  most  cruelly  disap« 


150  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

pointed.  Mr.  Honeywood's  bill  upon  the  city  has,  it 
seems,  been  protested,  and  we  have  been  utterly  at  a 
loss  how  to  proceed. 

Leon.ine.  How  !  an  offer  of  his  own  too !  Sure 
he  could  not  mean  to  deceive  us  7 

Olivia.  Depend  upon  his  sincerity ;  he  only  mis- 
took  the  desire  for  the  power  of  serving  us.  But  let 
us  think  no  more  of  it.  I  believe  the  post-chaise  is 
ready  by  this. 

Landlady.  Not  quite  yet ;  and  begging  your  lady- 
ship's pardon,  I  don't  think  your  ladyship  quite  ready 
for  the  post-chaise.  The  north  road  is  a  cold  place, 
madam.  I  have  a  drop  in  the  house  of  as  pretty  rasp- 
berry as  ever  was  tipt  over  tongue.  Just  a  thimble- 
full  to  keep  the  wind  off  your  stomach.  To  be  sure, 
the  last  couple  we  had  here,  they  said  it  was  a  per- 
fect nosegay.  Ecod.  I  sent  them  both  away  as  good- 
natured— Up  went  the  blinds,  round  went  the  wheels, 
and  Drive  away,  post-boy  !  was  the  word. 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Well,  while  my  friend  Honeywood  is 
upon  the  post  of  danger  at  the  bar,  it  must  be  my 
business  to  have  an  eye  about  me  here.  I  think  I 
know  an  incendiary's  look  ;  for  wherever  the  devil 
makes  a  purchase  he  never  fails  to  set  his  mark.  Ha  ! 
who  have  we  here-!  My  son  and  daughter !  What 
can  they  be  doing  here'! 

Landlady.  I  tell  you,  madam,  it  will  do  you  good  ; 
I  think  I  know  by  this  time  what's  good  for  the  north 
road.     It's  a  raw  night,  madam. Sir — 

Leontine.  Not  a  drop  more,  good  madam.  I  should 
now  take  it  as  a  greater  favour,  if  you  hasten  the 
horses,  for  I  am  afraid  to  be  seen  myself. 

Landlady.  That  shall  be  done.  Wha,  Solomon! 
are  you  all  dead  there  1     Wha,  Solomon,  1  say  ! 

[Exit,  hauling. 

Olivia.  Well,  I  dread  lest  an  expedition  begun  in 
fear,  should  end  in  repentance.     Every  moment  we 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  157 

stay  increases  our  danger,  and  adds  to  my  apprehen- 
sions. 

Leontine.  There's  no  danger,  trust  me,  my  dear ; 
there  can  be  none.  If  Honeywood  has  acted  with 
honour,  and  kept  my  father,  as  he  promised,  in  em- 
ployment till  we  are  out  of  danger,  nothing  can  in- 
terrupt our  journey. 

Olivia.  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mr.  Honeywood's  sin- 
cerity, and  even  his  desire  to  serve  us.  My  fears  are 
from  your  father's  suspicions.  A  mind  so  disposed  to 
be  alarmed  without  a  cause,  will  be  but  too  ready 
when  there's  a  reason. 

Leontine.  Why,  let  him,  when  we  are  out  of  his 
power.  But  believe  me,  Olivia,  you  have  no  great 
reason  to  dread  his  resentment.  His  repining  temper, 
as  it  does  no  manner  of  injury  to  himself,  so  will  it 
never  do  harm  to  others.  He  only  frets  to  keep  him- 
self employed,  and  scolds  for  his  private  amusement. 

Olivia.  I  don't  know  that;  but  I'm  sure,  on  some 
occasions,  it  makes  him  look  most  shockingly. 

Crtxiker  discovering  himself. 

Croaker.  How  does  he  look  now  ? — How  does  he 
look  now  1 

Olivia.  Ah! 

Leontine.  Undone ! 

Crcakcr.  How  do  I  look  now  1  Sir,  I  am  your 
very  humble  servant.  Madam,  I  am  yours  !  What ! 
you  are  going  off,  are  you?  Then,  first,  if  you  please, 
take  a  word  or  two  from  me  witli  you  before  you  go. 
Tell  me  first  where  you  are  going;  and  when  you 
have  told  me  that,  perhaps  I  shall  know  as  little  as  I 
did  before. 

Leontine.  If  that  be  so,  our  answer  might  but  in- 
crease your  displeasure,  without  adding  to  your  infor- 
mation. 

Croaker.  I  want  no  information  from  you,  puppy: 
and  you  too,  good  madam,  what  answer  have  you 
got]    Eh!    (A  cry  without,  Sto>)   him.)      1   think   J 


158  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

heard  a  noise.  My  friend  Honeywood  without — has 
he  'seized  the  incendiary  1  Ah,  no,  for  now  I  hear 
no  more  on't. 

Leontine.  Honeywood  without !  Then,  sir,  it  was 
Mr.  Honeywood  that  directed  you  hither  1 

Croaket ,  No,  sir,  it  was  Mr.  Honeywood  conducted 
me  hither. 

Leontine.  Is  it  possible"! 

Croaker.  Possible  !  why  he's  in  the  house  now,  sir  j 
more  anxious  about  me  than  my  own  son,  sir. 

Leontine.  Then,  sir,  he's  a  villain. 

Croaker.  How,  sirrah  !  a  villain,  because  he  takes 
most  care  of  your  father?  I'll  not  bear  it.  I  tell 
you,  I'll  not  bear  it.  Honeywood  is  a  friend  to  the 
family,  and  I'll  have  him  treated  as  such. 

Leontine.  I  shall  study  to  repay  his  friendship  as  it 
deserves. 

Croaker.  Ah,  rogue,  if  you  knew  how  earnestly  he 
entered  into  my  griefs,  and  pointed  out  the  means  to 
detect  them,  you  would  love  him  as  I  do.  {A  cry 
without,  Stop  him.)  Fire  and  fury !  they  have  seized 
the  incendiary  :  they  have  the  villain,  the  incendiary 
in  view.  Stop  him  !  stop  an  incendiary  !  a  murderer ! 
stop  him  !  [Exit. 

Olivia.  Oh,  my  terrors!  What  can  this  tumult 
mean? 

Leontine.  Some  new  mark,  I  suppose,  of  Mr. 
Honeywood's  sincerity.  But  we  shall  have  satisfac- 
tion :  he  shall  give  me  instant  satisfaction. 

Olivia.  It  must  not  be,  my  Leontine,  if  you  value 
my  esteem  or  my  happiness.  Whatever  be  our  fate, 
let  us  not  add  guilt  to  our  misfortunes  :  consider  that 
our  innocence  will  shortly  be  all  that  we  have  left  us. 
You  must  forgive  him. 

Leontine.  Forgive  him  !  Has  he  not  in  every  in- 
stance betrayed  us  1  Forced  me  to  borrow  money  from 
*him,  which  appears  a  mere  trick  to  delay  us;  pro- 
mised to  keep  my  father  engaged  till  we  were  out  of 
danger,  and  here  brought  him  to  the  very  scene  of 
our  escape  ? 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  159 

Olivia.  Don't  be  precipitate.  We  may  yet  be  mis- 
taken. 

Enter  Postboy,  dragging  in  Jarvis ;  Honey  wood  entering 
soon  after. 

Postboy.  Ay,  master,  we  have  him  fast  enough. 
Here  is  the  incendiary  dog.  I'm  entitled  to  the  re- 
ward ;  I'll  take  my  oath  I  saw  him  ask  for  the  money 
at  the  bar,  and  then  run  for  it. 

Honeyivood.  Come,  bring  him  along.  Let  us  see 
him.  Let  him  learn  to  blush  for  his  crimes.  (Disco- 
vering his  mistake.)  Death !  what's  here  ?  Jarvis, 
Leoniine,  Olivia!     What  can  all  this  mean? 

Jarvis.  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means:  that  I 
was  an  old  fool,  and  that  you  are  my  master — that's  all. 

Honeyuood.  Confusion  ! 

Leoniine.  Yes,  sir,  I  find  you  have  kept  your  word 
with  me.  After  such  baseness,  I  wonder  how  you 
can  venture  to  see  the  man  you  have  injured  ! 

Honeyivood.  iVly  dear  Leontine,  by  my  life,  my 
honour 

Leontine.  Peace,  peace,  for  shame ;  and  do  not 
continue  to  aggravate  baseness  by  hypocrisy.  I  know 
you,  sir,  I  know  you. 

Honeyivood.  Why  won't  you  hear  me?  By  all  that's 
just,  I  knew  not 

Leontine.  Hear  you,  sir  !  to  what  purpose  1  I  now 
see  through  all  your  low  arts;  your  ever  complying 
with  every  opinion  ;  your  never  refusing  anv  request ; 
your  friendship's  as  common  as  a  prostitute's  favours, 
and  a^  fallacious;  all  these,  sir,  have  long  been  con- 
temptible to  the  world,  and  are  now  perfectly  so  to  me. 

Honeyivood,  Ha !  contemptible  to  the  world  !  that 
reaches  me.  [Aside. 

Leontine.  All  the  seeming  sincerity  of  your  profes- 
sions, I  now  find  were  only  allurements  to  betray  ; 
and  all  your  seeming  regret  for  their  consequences, 
only  calculated  to  cover  the  cowardice  of  your  heart. 
Draw,  villain ! 


100  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN 

Enter  Croaker,  out  of  breath. 

Croaker.  Where  is  the  villain?  Where  is  the  in- 
cendiary? (Seising  the  Postboy.)  Hold  him  fast,  the 
dog  :  he  has  the  gallows  in  his  face.  Come,  you 
dog,  confess  ;  confess  all,  and  hang  yourself. 

Postboy.  Zounds  !  master,  what  do  you  throttle  me 
for? 

Croaker.  (Beating  him.)  Dog,  do  you  resist:  do 
you  resist? 

Postboy.  Zounds  !  master,  I'm  not  he  ;  there's  the 
man  that  we  thought  was  the  rogue,  and  turns  out  to 
be  one  of  the  company. 

Croaker.  How ! 

Honeywood.  Mr.  Croaker,  we  have  all  been  unuer 
a  strange  mistake  here ;  I  find  there  is  nobody  guiltv  ; 
it  was  all  an  error — entirely  an  error  of  our  own. 

Croaker.  And  I  say,  sir,  that  you're  in  error ;  for 
there's  guilt  and  double  guilt,  a  plot,  a  damned  Jesuit- 
ical, pestilential  plot,  and  I  must  have  proof  of  it. 

Honeywood.  Do  but  hear  me. 

Croaker.  What !  you  intend  to  bring  'em  off,  1 
suppose?  I'll  hear  nothing. 

Honeywood.  Madam,  you  seem  at  least  calm  enougc 
to  hear  reason. 

Olivia.  Excuse  me. 

Honeywood.  Good  Jarvis,  let  me  then  explain  i* 
to  you. 

Jarvis.  What  signifies  explanations  when  the  thing 
is  done? 

Honeywood.  Will  nobody  hear  me  ?  Was  there  ever 
such  a  set,  so  blinded  by  passion  and  prejudice?  (To 
the  Postboy)  My  good  friend,  I  believe  you'll  be  sur- 
prised when  I  assure  you 

Postboy.  Sure  me  nothing — I'm  sure  of  nothing  but 
a  good  beating. 

Croaker.  Come  then  you,  madam,  if  you  ever  hope 
for  any  favour  or  forgiveness,  tell  me  sincerely  all  you 
know  of  this  affair. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  161 

Olivia.  Unhappily,  sir,  I'm  but  too  much  the  cause 
of  your  suspicions  :  You  see  before  you,  sir  one  that, 
with  false  pretences,  has  stept  into  your  family  to 
betray  it ;  not  your  daughter 

Croaker.   Not  my  daughter! 

Olivia.  Not  your  daughter — but  a  mean  deceiver — 
who — support  me,  I  cannot 

Hcneywood.  Help,  she's  going  ;  give  her  air. 

Croaker.  Ay,  ay,  take  the  young  woman  to  the 
air;  I  would  not  hurt  a  hair  of  her  head,  whose  ever 
daughter  she  mav  be — not  so  bad  as  that  neither. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Croaker. 
Yes,  yes,  all's  out;  I  now  see  the  whole  affair:  my 
son  is  either  married,  or  going  to  be  so,  to  this  lady, 
whom  he  imposed  upon  me  as  his  sister.  Ay,  certainly 
so ;  and  yet  I  don't  find  it  afflicts  me  so  much  as  one 
might  think.  There's  the  advantage  of  fretting  away 
our  misfortunes  beforehand,  —  we  never  feel  them 
when  they  come. 

Enter  Miss  Richland  and  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  But  how  do  you  know,  madam,  that 
my  nephew  intends  setting  off  from  this  place  1 

Miss  Richland.  My  maid  assured  me  he  was  come 
to  this  inn,  and  my  own  knowledge  of  his  intending  to 
reave  the  kingdom,  suggested  the  rest.  But  what  do 
I  see  1  my  guardian  here  before  us!  Who,  my  dear 
sir,  could  have  expected  meeting  you  here  1  To  what 
accident  do  we  owe  this  pleasure  1 

Croaker.  To  a  fool,  I  believe. 

Miss  Rich/and.  But  to  what  purpose  did  you  come  1 

Croaker.  To  play  the  fool. 

Miss  Richland.  But  with  whom  1 

Croaker.   With  greater  fools  than  myself. 

Miss  Richland.  Explain. 

Croaler.  Why,  Mr.  Iloneywood  brought  me  here, 
to  do  nothing  now  I  am  here  ;  and  my  son  is  going  to 
be  married  to  I  don't  know  who,  that  is  here  :  so  now 
you  are  as  wise  as  I  am. 


1G2 


THE  GOOU-NATURED  MAN. 


Miss  Richland.  Married  !  to  whom,  sir? 

Croaker.  To  Olivia,  my  daughter,  as  I  took  her  to 
be  ;  but  who  the  devil  she  is,  or  whose  daughter  she 
is,  I  know  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon. 

Sir  William.  Then,  sir,  I  can  inform  you ;  and, 
though  a  stranger,  yet  you  shall  find  me  a  friend  to 
your  family.  It  will  be  enough,  at  present,  to  assure 
you,  that  both  in  point  of  birth  and  fortune,  the  young 
lady  is  at  least  your  son's  equal.  Being  left  by  her 
father,  Sir  James  Woodville 

Croaker.  Sir  James  Woodville !  What !  of  the 
West  1 

Sir  William.  Being  left  by  him,  I  say,  to  the  care  of 
a  mercenary  wretch,  whose  only  aim  was  to  secure  her 
fortune  to  himself,  she  was  sent  to  France,  under  pre- 
tence of  education ;  and  there  every  art  was  tried  to 
fix  her  for  life  in  a  convent,  contrary  to  her  inclina- 
tions. Of  this  I  was  informed  upon  my  arrival  at  Paris  ; 
and,  as  I  had  been  once  her  father's  friend,  I  did  all 
in  my  power  to  frustrate  her  guardian's  base  inten- 
tions. 1  had  even  meditated  to  rescue  her  from  his 
authority,  when  your  son  stept  in  with  more  pleasing 
violence,  gave  her  liberty,  and  you  a  daughter. 

Croaker.  But  I  intend  to  have  a  daughter  of  my 
own  choosing,  sir.  A  young  lady,  sir,  whose  fortune, 
by  my  interest  with  those  that  have  interest,  will  be 
double  what  my  son  has  a  right  to  expect.  Do  you 
know  Mr.  Lofty,  sir  1 

Sir  William.  Yes,  sir ;  and  know  that  you  are  de- 
ceived in  him.  But  step  this  way,  and  I'll  convince 
you.  [Croaker  and  Sir  William  seem  to  confer. 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeywood.  Obstinate  man,  still  to  persist  in  his 
outrage  !  Insulted  by  him,  despised  by  all,  I  now 
begra  to  grow  contemptible  even  to  myself.  Plow 
have  I  sunk,  by  too  great  an  assiduity  to  please  !  How 
have  I  overtaxed  all  my  abilities,  lest  the  approbation 
of  a  single  fool  should  escape  me !    But  all  is  now 


I 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  162 

over  :  I  have  survived  my  reputation,  my  fortune,  my 
friendships,  and  nothing  remains  henceforward  for  me 
but  solitude  and  repentance. 

Miss  Richland.  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Honeywood,  that 
you  are  setting  off,  without  taking  leave  of  your 
friends?  The  report  is,  that  you  are  quitting  England  : 
Can  it  be ? 

Honeywood.  Yes,  madam  ;  and  though  I  am  so 
unhappy  as  to  have  fallen  under  your  displeasure,  yet, 
thank  Heaven  !  I  leave  you  to  happiness — to  one  who 
loves  you,  and  deserves  your  love — to  one  who  has 
power  to  procure  you  affluence,  and  generosity  to  im- 
prove your  enjoyment  of  it. 

Miss  Richland.  And  are  you  sure,  sir,  that  the  gen- 
tleman you  mean  is  what  you  describe  him  1 

Honeywood.  I  have  the  best  assurances  of  it — his 
serving  me.  He  does  indeed  deserve  the  highest  hap- 
piness, and  that  is  in  your  power  to  confer.  As  for 
me,  weak  and  wavering  as  I  have  been,  obliged  by  all, 
and  incapable  of  serving  any,  what  happiness  can  I 
find  but  in  solitude?  what  hope,  but  in  being  for- 
gotten ? 

Miss  Richland.  A  thousand  :  to  live  among  friends 
that  esteem  you,  whose  happiness  rt  will  be  to  be 
permitted  to  oblige  you. 

Honeywood.  No,  madam,  my  resolution  is  fixed. 
Inferiority  among  strangers  is  easy  ;  but  among  those 
that  once  were  equals,  insupportable.  Nay,  to  shew 
you  how  far  my  resolution  can  go,  I  can  now  speak 
with  calmness  of  my  former  follies,  my  vanity,  my 
dissipation,  my  weakness.  I  will  even  confess,  that, 
among  the  number  of  my  other  presumptions,  I  had 
the  insolence  to  think  of  loving  you.  Yes,  madam, 
while  I  was  pleading  the  passion  of  another,  my  heart 
was  tortured  with  its  own.  But  it  is  over  ;  it  was  un- 
worthy our  friendship,  and  let  it  be  forgotten. 

Mia  Richland.  You  amaze  me  ! 

Honeywood.  But  you'll  forgive  it,  I  know  you  will: 
since  the  confession  should  not  have  come  from  me 


IGi 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


even  now,  but  to  convince  you  of  the  sincerity  of  my 
intention  of — never  mentioning  it  more.  [Going. 

Miss  Richland.    Stay,  sir,  one  moment — Ha !    he 
here 


Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Is  the  coast  clear?  None  but  friends'?  I 
nave  followed  you  here  with  a  trifling  piece  of  intelli- 
gence ;  but  it  goes  no  farther  ;  things  are  not  yet 
ripe  for  a  discovery.  I  have  spirits  working  at  a  cer- 
tain board  ;  your  affair  at  the  Treasury  will  be  done 
in  less  than — a  thousand  years.    Mum ! 

Miss  Richland.  Sooner,  sir,  I  should  hope. 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  I  believe  it  may,  if  it  falls  into 
proper  hands,  that  know  where  to  push  and  where  to 
parry ;  that  know  how  the  land  lies — eh,  Honeywood  ? 

Miss  Richland.  It  has  fallen  into  yours. 

Lofty.  Well,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense, 
your  thing  is  done.  It  is  done,  I  say — that's  all.  I 
have  just  had  assurances  from  Lord  Nuverout,  that 
the  claim  has  been  examined,  and  found  admissible. 
Quietus  is  the  word,  madam. 

Honeywood.  But  how?  his  lordship  has  been  at 
Newmarket  these  ten  days. 

Lofty.  Indeed!  then  Sir  Silbert  Goose  must  have 
been  most  damnably  mistaken.     I  had  it  of  him. 

Miss  Richland.  He !  why,  Sir  Gilbert  and  his 
family  have  been  in  the  country  this  month. 

Lofty.  This  month !  it  must  certainly  be  so — Sir 
Gilbert's  letter  did  come  to  me  from  Newmarket,  so 
that  he  must  have  met  his  lordship  there ;  and  so  it 
came  about.  I  have  his  letter  about  me  ;  I'll  read  it 
to  you.  (Taking  out  a  large  bundle.}  That's  from 
Paoli  of  Corsica,  that  from  the  Marquis  cf  Squilaclii. 
Have  you  a  mind  to  see  a  letter  from  Count  Ponia- 
towski,  now  King  of  Poland  ?  Honest  Pon — (Search- 
ing.) Oh,  sir,  what  are  you  here  too?  I'll  tell  you 
what,  honest  friend,  if  you  have  not  absolu'ely  de- 


fr^-T- 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  1G5 

livered   my  letter  to  Sir  William  Honeywood,  you 
may  return  it.     The  thing  will  do  without  him. 

Sir  William.  Sir,  I  have  delivered  it;  and  must 
inform  you  it  was  received  with  the  most  mortifying 
contempt.  ° 

Croaker.  Contempt!  Mr.  Lofty,  what  can  that 
mean! 

Lofty.  Let  him  go  on,  let  him  go  on,  I  say.  You'll 
find  it  come  to  something  presently. 

Sir  William.  Yes,  sir;  I  believe  you'll  be  amazed, 
if,  after  waiting  some  time  in  the  antichamber — after 
being  surveyed  with  insolent  curiosity  by  the  passing 
servants,  I  was  at  last  assured,  that  Sir  William 
Honeywood  knew  no  such  person,  and  I  must  cer- 
tainly have  been  imposed  upon. 

Lofty.  Good!  let  me  die;  very  good.  Ha!  ha!  ha' 

Croaker.  Now,  for  my  life,  I  can't  find  out  half 
the  goodness  of  it. 

Lojty.  You  can't  ?     Ha  !  ha  ! 

Croaker.  No,  for  the  soul  of  me  :  I  think  it  was  as 
confounded  a  bad  answer  as  ever  was  sent  from  one 
private  gentleman  to  another. 

Lofty.  And  so  you  can't  find  out  the  force  of  the 
message  ?  Why,  I  was  in  the  house  at  that  very 
time.  Ha  !  ha  !  it  was  I  that  sent  that  very  answer 
♦o  my  own  letter.     Ha  !  ha  ! 

Croaker.   Indeed!   How?  why? 

Lofty.  In  one  word,  things  between  Sir  William 
and  me  must  be  behind  the  curtain.  A  parly  has 
many  eyes.  He  sides  with  Lord  Buzzard,  I  side  with 
Sir  Gilbert  Goose.     So  that  unriddles  the  mystery. 

_  Croaker.  And  so  it  does,  indeed ;  and  all'  my  sus- 
picions are  over. 

Lofty-  Your  suspicions !  what,  then,  you  have 
been  suspecting,  you  have  been  suspecting,  have 
you !  Mr.  Croaker,  you  and  I  were  friends— we  are 
friends  no  longer.  Never  talk  to  me.  Its.  over;  I 
say  it's  over. 

Croaker.  As  I  hope  for  your  favour,  I  did  not  mean 
to  offend.     It  escaped  me.     Don't  be  discomposed. 


16C 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAX. 


Lofty.  Zounds!  sir,  but  I  am  discomposed,  and 
will  be  discomposed.  To  be  treated  thus!  Who  am 
I  ?  Was  it  for  this  I  have  been  dreaded  both  by  ins 
and  outs?  Have  I  been  libelled  in  the  Gazetteer, 
and  praised  in  the  St.  James's  ;  have  1  been  chaired 
at  Wildman's,  and  a  speaker  at  Merchant  Tailors' 
Hall  ;  have  I  had  my  hand  to  addresses,  and  my 
head  in  the  print-shops, — and  talk  to  me  of  suspects'? 

Croaker.  My  dear  sir,  be  pacified.  What  ca>n  you 
have  but  asking  pardon  1 

Lofty.  Sir,  I  will  not  be  pacified — Suspects!  Who 
am  1 1  To  be  used  thus  !  Have  I  paid  court  to  men 
in  favour  to  serve  my  friends,  the  lords  of  the  Trea- 
sury, Sir  William  Honeywood,  and  the  rest  of  the 
gang,  and  talk  to  me  of  suspects  !  Who  am  I,  I  say, 
who  am  1 1 

Sir  William.  Since  you  are  so  pressing  for  an 
answer,  I'll  tell  you  who  you  are  : — A  gentleman  as 
well  acquainted  with  politics  as  with  men  in  power ; 
as  well  acquainted  with  persons  of  fashion  as  with 
modesty  ;  with  lords  of  the  Treasury  as  with  truth  ; 
and,  with  all,  as  you  are  with  Sir  William  Honey- 
wood.  I  am  Sir  William  Honeywood.  (Discovering 
his  ensigns  of  the  Batli.) 

Croaker.  Sir  William  Honeywood  ! 

Honeywood.  Astonishment!  my  uncle  !  (Aside.") 

Lofty.  So  then,  my  confounded  genius  has  been 
all  this  time  only  leading  me  up  to  the  garret,  in 
order  to  fling  me  out  of  the  window. 

Croaker.  What,  Mr.  Importance,  and  are  these  your 
works?  Suspect  you  !  You,  who  have  been  dreaded 
by  the  ins  and  outs  ;  you,  who  have  had  your  hand 
to  addresses,  and  your  head  stuck  up  in  print-shops  ! 
If  you  were  served  right,  you  should  have  your  head 
stuck  up  in  the  pillory. 

Lofty.  Ay,  stick  it  where  you  will ;  for  by  the 
Lord,  it  cuts  but  a  very  poor  figure  where  it  sticks  at 
present. 

■Sir  William.  Well,  Mr.  Croaker,  I  hope  you  now 
see  how  incapable  this  gentleman  is  of  serving  you, 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  167 

and  how  little  Miss  Richland  has  to  expect  liom  his 
influence. 

Croaker.  Ay,  sir,  too  well  I  see  it ;  and  I  can't  but 
say  I  have  hail  some  boding  of  it  these  ten  days.  So 
I'm  resolved,  since  my  son  has  placed  his  affections  on 
a  lady  of  moderate  fortune,  to  be  satisfied  with  his 
choice,  and  not  run  the  hazard  of  another  Mr.  Lofty 
in  helping  him  to  a  better. 

Sir  William.  I  approve  your  resolution  ;  and  here 
they  come,  to  receive  a  confirmation  of  your  pardon 
and  consent. 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker,  Jarvis,  Leontine,  and  Olivia. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Where's  my  husband"!  Come,  come, 
lovey,  you  must  forgive  them.  Jarvis  here  has  been 
to  tell  me  the  whole  affair  ;  and  I  say,  you  must  for- 
give them.  Our  own  was  a  stolen  match,  you  know, 
my  dear  ;  and  we  never  had  ^ny  reason  to  repent 
of  it. 

Croaker.  I  wish  we  could  both  say  so.  However, 
this  gentleman,  Sir  William  Honeywood,  has  been 
beforehand  with  you  in  obtaining  their  pardon.  So, 
if  the  two  poor  fools  have  a  mind  to  marry,  I  think 
we  can  tack  them  together  without  crossing  the 
Tweed  for  it.  [Joining  their  hands. 

Leontine.  How  blest  and  unexpected!  What, 
what  can  we  say  to  such  goodness"!  But  our  future 
obedience  shall  be  the  best  reply.  And  as  for  this 
gentleman,  to  whom  we  owe 

Sir  William.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  interrupt  your 
thanks,  as  I  have  here  an  interest  that  calls  me. 
{Turning  to  Honeywood.)  Yes,  sir,  you  are  surprised 
to  see  me  ;  and  I  own  that  a  desire  of  correcting  your 
follies  led  me  hither.  I  saw  with  indignation  the 
errors  of  a  mind  that  only  sought  applause  from 
others;  that  easiness  of  disposition  which,  though  in- 
clined to  the  right,  had  not  courage  to  condemn 
the  wrong.  I  saw  with  regret  those  splendid  errors.. 
that  still  took  name  from  some  neighbouring  duty  ; 


U58  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

your  charity,  that  was  but  iajustice ;  your  benevo- 
lence, that  was  but  weakness;  and  your  friendship 
but  credulity.  I  saw  with  regret,  great  talents  and 
extensive  learning  only  employed  to  add  sprightliness 
to  error,  and  increase  your  perplexities.  I  saw  your 
mind  with  a  thousand  natural  charms ;  but  the  great- 
ness of  its  beauty  served  only  to  heighten  my  pity  for 
its  prostitution. 

Honeywood.  Cease  to  upbraid  me,  sir :  I  have  for 
some  time  but  too  strongly  felt  the  justice  of  your  re- 
proaches. But  there  is  one  way  still  left  me.  Yes, 
sir,  I  have  determined  this  very  hour  to  quit  for  evei 
a  place  where  1  have  made  myself  the  voluntary  slave 
of  all,  and  to  seek  among  strangers  that  fortitude 
which  may  give  strength  to  the  mind,  and  marshal  all 
its  dissipated  virtues.  Yet,  ere  I  depart,  permit  me 
to  solicit  favour  for  this  gentleman,  who,  notwith- 
standing what  has  happened,  has  laid  me  under  the 
most  signal  obligations.     Mr.  Lofty 

Lofty.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  resolved  upon  a  re- 
formation as  well  as  you.  I  now  begin  to  find  that  the 
man  who  first  invented  the  art  of  speaking  truth,  was  a 
much  cunninger  fellow  than  I  thought  him.  ■  And  to 
prove  that  1  design  to  speak  truth  for  the  future,  I 
must  now  assure  you,  that  you  owe  your  late  enlarge- 
ment to  another ;  as,  upon  my  soul,  I  had  no  hand 
in  the  matter.  So  now,  if  any  of  the  company  has  a 
mind  for  preferment,  he  may  take  my  place  3  I'm  de- 
termined to  resign.  [Exit. 
'  Honeiiwood.  How  have  I  been  deceived  ! 

SirWiltiam.  No,  sir,  you  have  been  obliged  to  a 
kinder,  fairer  friend,  for  that  favour, — to  Miss  Rich- 
land. Would  she  complete  our  joy,  and  make  the 
man  she  has  honoured  by  her  friendship  happy  in  her 
love,  I  should  then  forget  all.  and  be  as  blest  as  the 
welfare  of  my  dearest  kinsman  can  make  me. 

Miss  Richiand.  After  wh^t  is  past,  it  would  be  but 
affectation  to  pretend  to  indifference.  Yes,  I  will  own 
an  attachment,  which  I  find  was  more  than  friendship. 
And  if  my  entreaties  cannot  alter  his  resolution  tc 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  JC9 

quit  the  country,  I  will  even  try  if  my  hand  has  not 
power  to  detain  him.  [Giving  her  hand. 

Honeywood.  Heavens !  how  can  I  have  deserved  all 
this?  How  express  my  happiness — my  gratitude  1  A 
moment  like  this  overpays  an  age  of  apprehension. 

Croaker.  Well,  now  I  see  content  in  every  face; 
but  Heaven  send  we  be  all  better  this  day  three 
months ! 

Sir  William.  Henceforth,  nephew,  learn  to  respect 
yourself.  He  who  seeks  only  for  applause  from 
without,  has  all  his  happiness  in  another's  keeping. 

Honeywood.  Yes,  sir,  I  now  too  plainly  perceive 
my  errors  :  my  vanity,  in  attempting  to  please  all  by 
fearing  to  offend  any ;  my  meanness,  in  approving 
folly  lest  fools  should  disapprove.  Henceforth,  there- 
fore, it  shall  be  my  study  to  reserve  my  pity  for  real 
distress ;  my  friendship  for  true  merit ;  and  my  love 
tor  her  who  first  taught  me  what  it  is  to  be  happy. 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


EPILOGUE.* 

SPOKEN    BY    MRS.    EULKLEY. 

As  puffing  quacss  some  caitiff  wretch  procure 
To  swear  the  pill  or  drop  has  wrought  a  cure  ; 
Thus,  on  the  stage,  our  play-wrights  still  depend 
For  epilogues  and  prologues  on  some  friend, 
Who  knows  each  art  of  coaxing  up  the  town, 
And  makes  full  many  a  bitter  pill  go  down. 
Conscious  of  this,  our  bard  has  gone  about, 
And  teased  each  rhyming  friend  to  help  him  out : 
An  epilogue  !  things  can't  go  on  without  it ! 
It  could  not  fail,  would  you  but  set  about  it: 
'  Young  man,'  cries  one  {a  bard  laid  up  in  clover), 
■  Alas  !  young  man,  my  writing  days  are  over  ! 

•  Thcaulhnr,  in  expectation  of  an  Epilogue  from  a  friend  at  Oxford, 
deferred  writing  one  himself  till  the  very  last  hour.  What  is  here 
offered,  owes  all  its  success  to  the  graceful  manner  of  the  actress  whe 
spoke  it. 

I 


170  THE  G^OD-NATURED  MAN. 

Let  boys  play  tricks,  and  kick  the  straw,  not  1) 
Your  brother-doctor  there,  perhaps,  may  try.' 
'  What  I,  dear  sir1.'  the  Doctor  interposes, 
'  What,  plant  rny  thistle,  sir,  among  his  roses! 
No,  no,  I've  other  contests  to  maintain  ; 
To-night  I  head  our  troops  at  Warwick-Lane. 
Go,  ask  your  manager.' — *  Who,  me?  Your  pardon  ; 
Those  things  are  not  our  forte  at  Covent  Garden.' 
Our  author's  friends,  thus  placed  at  happy  distance 
Give  him  good  words  indeed,  but  no  assistance. 
As  some  unhappy  wight,  at  some  new  play, 
At  the  pit-door  stands  elbowing  a  way, 
While  oft,  with  many  a  smile,  and  many  a  shrug, 
He  eyes  the.  centre,  where  his  friends  sit  snug; 
His  simpering  friends,  with  pleasure  in  their  eyes, 
Sink  as  he  sinks,  and  as  he  rises  rise : 
He  nods,  they  nod  ;  he  cringes,  they  grimace ; 
But  not  a  soul  will  budge  to  give  him  place. 
Since,  then,  unhelp'd,  our  bard  must  now  conform 
*  To  'bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm,' 
Blame  where  you  must,  be  candid  where  you  can, 
And  be  each  critic  the  Good-Nutured  Man. 


171 

SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER; 

OR, 

THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT. 
k  COMEDY. 

Sh*  Sloops  to  Conquer  was  represt  4!»d  for  the  first  time,  March  1&, 
1773.  It  was  very  successful,  aix1  became  a  stock  plav.  Golclsiuitu 
originally  entitled  it,  The  Old  Home  a  i\ew  Inn. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,   LL.  D. 

Dear  Sir  — By  inscribing  this  slight  performance 
to  you,  I  do  not  mean  so  much  to  compliment  you 
as  myself.  It  may  do  me  some  honour  to  inform  the 
public,  that  I  have  Uvea  many  years  in  intimacy  with 
you.  ItmayGmethe  interests  of  mankind  also  to 
inform  them  that  the  greatest  wit  may  be  found  in  a 
character,    without    impairing   the   most  unaffected 

I  have,  particularly,  reason  to  t.ians  you  for  your 
partiality  to  this  performance.  The  undertaking  a 
comedy,  not  merely  sentimental,  was  very  dangerous; 
and  Mr.  Colman,  who  saw  this  piece  in  its  various 
staces,  alwavs  thought  it  so.  However,  I  ventured 
to  Trust  it  to  the  public  ;  and,  though  it  was  necessa- 
rily delayed  till  late  in  the  season,  I  have  every  rea- 
son to  be  grateful. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 
Your  most  sincere  friend  and  admirer, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


DRAMATIS     PERSONA. 

MEN. 

Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Young  Marlow  (his  son,* 

Hardcastle. 

Hastings. 

Tony  Lumpkin. 

Diggory. 

WOMEN. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle. 
Miss  Hardcastle, 
Miss  Neville. 
Maid. 

Landlord,  Servant*.  4s, 


173 
SHE   STOOPS    TO    CONQUER; 

OR, 

THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT. 


PROLOGUE, 

BY     DAVID    CARRICK,    ESQ. 

Enter  Mr.  Woodward,  dressed  in  black,  and  holding  a 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes. 

Excuse  me,  sirs,  I  pray — I  can't  yet  speak — 
I'm  crying  now — and  have  been  all  the  week. 
'  'Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit,'  good  masters : 
'  I've  that  within'  for  which  there  are  no  plasters ! 
Pray,  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I'm  crying'! 
The  Comic  Muse,  long  sick,  is  now  a-dying! 
And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop  ; 
For,  as  a  player,  I  can't  squeeze  out  one  drop 
I  am  undone,  that's  all — shall  lose  my  bread — 
I'd  rather — but  that's  nothing — lose  my  head. 
When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 
Shuter  and  I  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 
To  her  a  mawkish  drab  of  spurious  breed, 
Who  deals  in  sentimentals,  will  succeed. 
Poor  Ned  and  I  are  dead  to  all  intents  ; 
We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  sentiments: 
Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up, 
We  now  and  then  take  down  a  hearty  cup. 
What  shall  we  do!     If  Comedy  forsake  us, 
They'll  turn  ns  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take  us. 
But  why  can't  I  be  moral  ?     Let  me  try  : 
My  heart  thus  pressing — fix'd  my  face  and  eye — 
With  a  sententious  look  that  nothing  means 
(Faces  are  blocks  in  sentimental  scenes), 


174 


SHS  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Thus  I  begin,  '  All  is  not  gold  that  glitters,  _ 

Pleasures  seem  sweet,  but  prove  a  glass  of  bitters. 

When  ign'rance  enters,  folly  is  at  hand : 

Learning  is  better  far  than  house  or  land. 

Let  not  your  virtue  trip  :  who  trips  may  stumble, 

And  virtue  is  not  virtue  if  she  tumble.' 

I  give  it  up — morals  won't  do  for  me  ; 

To  make  you  laugh,  I  must  play  tragedy. 

One  hope  remains, — hearing  the  maid  was  ill, 

A  Doctor  comes  this  night  to  shew  his  skill  ; 

To  cheer,  her  heart,  and  give  your  muscles  motion 

lie,  in  Five  Draughts  prepared,  presents  a  potion 

A  kind  of  magic  charm  ;  for,  be  assured, 

If  you  v/ill  swallow  it,  the  maid  is  cured  : 

But  desperate  the  Doctor's  and  her  case  is, 

If  you  reject  the  dose  and  make  wry  faces. 

This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives 

No  pois'nous  drugs  a-re  mix'd  in  what  he  gives 

Should  he  succeed,  you'll  give  him  his  degree* 

W  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee. 

The  college,  you,  must  his  pretensions  back, 

Pronounce  him  Regular,  or  dub  him  Quack. 


ACT    FIRST. 

Scene  1. — a  chamber  in  an  old-fashioned  hoc-sis. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcaslle  and  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're 
very  particular.  Is  there  a  creature  in  the  wnole 
country  but  ourselves,  that  does  not  take  a  trip  to  town 
now  and  then,  to  rub  off  the  rust  a  little  ]  There's  tho 
two  Miss  Hoggs,  and  our  neighbour  Mrs.  Grigsby, 
go  to  take  a  month's  polishing  every  winter. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  and  bring  back  vanity  and  affect-o. 

tion  to  last  them  the  whole  year.  I  wonder  why  Londoc 

cannot  keep  its  own  fools  at  home.     In  my  time,  tin 

of  the  (own  crept  slowly  among  us,  but  nov 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  175 

they  travel  faster  than  a  stage-coach.  Its  fopperies 
come  down  not  only  as  inside  passengers,  but  in  the 
very  basket. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Aye,  your  times  were  fine  times 
indeed  :  you  have  been  telling  us  of  them  for  many  a 
long  year.  Here  we  live  in  an  old  rumbling  mansion, 
that  looks  for  all  the  world  like  an  inn,  but.  that  we 
never  see  company.  Our  best  visitors  are  old  Mrs.  Odd- 
fish,  the  curate's  wife,  and  little  Cripplegatc,  the  lame 
dancing-master ;  and  all  our  entertainment  your  old 
stories  of  Prince  Eugene  and  the  Duke  of  Marlbo- 
rough.    1  hate  such  old-fashioned  trumpery. 

Hardcastle.  And  1  love  it.  1  love  every  thing  that's 
old  :  old  friends,  old  times,  old  manners,  old  books, 
old  wine  ;  and,  I  believe,  Dorothy,  (taking  her  hand,) 
you'll  own  I've  been  pretty  fond  of  an  old  wife. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Lord,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  for 
ever  at  your  Dorothys,  and  your  old  wives.  Ycu 
may  be  a  Darby,  but  I'll  bo  no  Joan,  I  promise  you. 
I'm  not  so  old  as  you'd  make  me,  by  more  than  one 
good  year.  And  twenty  to  twenty,  and  make  money 
of  that. 

Hardcustle.  Let  me  see  ;  twenty  added  to  twenty, 
makes  just  fifty  and  seven. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  It's  false,  Mr.  Hardcastle  ;  I  was 
but  twenty  when  I  was  brought  to-bed  of  Tony,  that 
I  had  by  Mr.  Lumpkin,  my  first  husband;  and  he's 
not  come  to  years  of  discretion  yet. 

Hardcastle.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for  him. — 
Ay,  you  have  taught  him  finely  ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  No  matter.  Tony  Lumpkin  has 
a  good  fortune.  My  son  is  not  to  live  by  his  learning. 
I  don't  think  a  boy  wants  much  learning  to  spend 
en  hundred  a-year. 

Hardcastle.    I  .  quotha!  a  mere  composition 

of  tricks  and  mischief. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Humour,  my  dear,  nothing  but 
humour.     Come,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must  allow  the 

Han  oonei  allow  id.    If 


176  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

burning  the  footman's  shoes,  frightening  the  maids, 
and  worrying  the  kittens,  be  humour,  he  has  it.  It  was 
but  yesterday  he  fastened  my  wig  to  the  back  of  rny 
chair,  and  when  I  went  to  make  a  bow,  I  popt  my 
bald  head  in  Mrs.  Frizzle's  face. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  am  I  to  blame  ?  The  poor 
boy  was  always  too  sickly  to  do  any  good.  A  school 
would  be  his  death.  When  he  comes  to  be  a  little 
stronger,  who  knows  what  a  year  or  two's  Latin  may 
do  for  him  ? 

Hardcastle.  Latin  for  him  !  A  cat  and  fiddle  No, 
no  ;  the  alehouse  and  the  stable  are  the  only  schools 
he'll  ever  go  to. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the  poor 
boy  now,  for  I  believe  we  shan't  have  him  long  among 
us.  Any  body  that  looks  in  his  face  may  see  he's 
consumptive. 

Hardcastle-  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of  the 
symptoms. 

Mrs  Hardcastle.  He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hardcastle.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the  wrong 
way. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I'm  actually  afraid  of  his  lungs. 

Hardcastle.  And  truly  so  am  I ;  for  lie  sometimes 
whoops  like  a  speaking  trumpet — {Tons,  hallooing 
behind  the  scenes.) — Oh,  there  he  goes — a  very  con- 
sumptive figure,  truly  ! 

Enter  Tony,  crossing  the  Stage. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Tony,  where  are  you  going,  my 
charmer-!  Won't  you  give  papa  and  I  a  little  of  your 
company,  lovey? 

Tony.  I'm  in  haste,  mother  ;  I  cannot  stay. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  shan't  venture  out  this  raw 
evening,  my  dear ;  you  look  most  shockingly. 

Tony.  1  can't  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  Three  Pigeons 
expects  me  down  every  moment.  There's  some  fun 
going  forvvard. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  the  alehouse,  the  old  place;  I 
thought  so. 


SDK  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  i77 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  low,  paltry  set  of  fellows.   _ 

Tcrny.  Not  so  low  neither,    i  here's  Dick  Muggins, 

the  exciseman,  Jack  Slang,   the  horse-doctor,  little 

Aminadab,  that  grinds  the  mu.sic-box,  and  lorn  1  wist, 

that  spins  the  pewter  platter.  . 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappoint  them 
for  one  night  at  least.  .    .      .. 

Tony.  As  for  disappointing  them,  I  should  not  so 
much  mind:  but  1  can't  abide  to  disappoint  royselt. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Detaining  him.)    Y  ou  shan  t  go. 
Tony.  I  will,  1  tell  you. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  say  you  shan't. 
Tonv.  We'll  see  which  is  the  strongest,  you  or  I. 

[Ex:/,  hauling  her  tfur. 
Hardcastle.  (Alone.)  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that 
only  spoil  each  other.  But  is  not  the  whole  age  in  a 
combination  to  drive  sense  and  discretion  out  ot  doors  . 
There's  my  pretty  darling,  Kate!  the  fashions  of  the 
times  have" almost  infected  her  too.  By  living  a  year 
or  two  in  town,  she  is  as  fond  of  gauze  and  French 
frippery  as  the  best  of  them. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence! 
drest  out  as  usual,  my  Kate.  Goodness!  what  a 
quantity  of  superfluous  silk  hast  thou  got  about  thee, 
girl !  •  1  could  never  teach  the  fools  of  this  age,  that 
the  indigent  world  could  be  clothed  out  of  the  trim- 
mings of  the  vain. 

Miss  Hardcastle.   You  know  our   agreement,    sir. 
You  allow  me  the  morning  to  receive  and  pi 
and  to  dress  in  my  own  manner ;  and  in  the  evening 
1  put  on  my  housewife's  dress  to  please  you. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  remember  1  insist  on  the  terms 

of  our  agreement ;  and,  by  the  by,  1  believe  1  shall 

have  occasion  to  try  your  obedience  this  very  evening. 

Mas  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  sir,  I  don't  comprehend 

your  meaning. 

Hardcastle.  Then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  1 
12 


178  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

expect  the  young  gentleman  I  have  chosen  to  be 
your  husband  from  town  this  very  day.  I  have  his 
father's  letter,  in  which  he  informs  me  his  son  is  set 
out,  and  that  he  intends  to  follow  himself  shortly 
after. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Indeed !  I  wish  I  had  known 
something  of  this  before.  Bless  me,  how  shall  I  be- 
have 1  It's  a  thousand  to  one  I  shan't  like  him  ;  our 
meeting  will  be  so  formal,  and  so  like  a  thing  of  bu- 
siness, that  I  shall  find  no  room  for  friendship  or 
esteem. 

Hardcastle.  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I  never  will 
sontrol  your  choice  ;  but  Mr.  Marlovv,  whom  I  have 
pitched  upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  Sir  Charles 
Mario w,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so  often. 
The  young  gentleman  has  been  bred  a  scholar,  and 
is  designed  for  an  employment  in  the  service  of  his 
country.  I  am  told  he's  a  man  of  an  excellent  un- 
derstanding. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Is  he  1 

Hardcastle.  Very  generous. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.  Young  and  brave. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  sure  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.  And  very  handsome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more, 
{kissing  his  hand)  he's  mine — I'll  have  him. 

Hardcastle.  And,  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he's  one  of 
the  most  bashful  and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all 
the  world. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Eh  !  you  have  frozen  m*e  to  death 
again.  That  word  reserved  has  undone  all  the  rest 
of  his  accomplishments.  A  reserved  lover,  it  is  said, 
always  makes  a  suspicious  husband. 

Hardcastle.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom  re- 
sides in  a  breast  that  is  not  enriched  with  nobler  vir- 
tues. It  was  the  very  feature  in  his  character  that 
first  struck  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  He  must  have  more  striking  fea- 
tures to  catch  me,  I  promise  you.     However,  if  he 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER. 


179 


be  so  young,  so  handsome,  and  so  every  thing  as  you 
mention,  1  believe  he'll  do  still.  I  think  I'll  have 
him. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an  obstacle. 
It's  more  than  an  even  wager  he  may  not  have  you. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you 
mortify  one  so  ?  Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead  of  break- 
ing my  heart  at  his  indifference,  I'il  only  break  my 
glass  for  its  flattery,  set  my  cap  to  some  newer  fashion, 
and  look  out  for  some  less  difficult  admirer. 

Hardcastle.  Bravely  resolved !  In  the  mean  time 
I'll  go  prepare  the  servants  for  his  reception :  as  we 
seldom  see  company,  they  want  as  much  training  as 
a  company  of  recruits  the  first  day's  muster.      [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Alone.)  Lud,  this  news  of  papa's 
puts  me  all  in  a  flutter.  Young,  handsome ;  these 
he  put  last,  but  I  put  them  foremost.  Sensible,  good- 
natured  ;  I  like  all  that.  But  then,  reserved  and 
sheepish  ;  that's  much  against  him.  Yet  can't  he  be 
cured  of  his  timidity,  by  being  taught  to  be  proud  of 
his  wife  ?  Yes ;  and  can't  1 — But  I  vow  I'm  dis- 
posing of  the  husband,  before  1  have  secured  the 
lover. 


Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  glad  you're  come,  Neville, 
my  dear.  Tell  me,  Constance,  how  do  I  look  this 
evening?  Is  there  anything  whimsical  about  me  ? 
Is  it  one  of  my  well-looking  days,  child?  am  I  in 
face  to  day  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet  now  I  look 
again — bless  me  !— sure  no  accident  has  happened 
among  the  canary  birds  or  the  gold  fishes'?  Has  your 
brother  or  the  cat  been  meddling?  or  has  the  last 
novel  been  too  moving? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No  ;  nothing  of  all  this.  I  have 
been  threatened — I  can  scarce  get  it  out — I  have 
been  threatened  with  a  lover. 

Miss  Neville.  And  his  name 


ISO  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Miss  Hardca.stle.  Is  Marlovv. 

Miss  Seville.  Indeed ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  The  son  of  Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Mis*  Neville.  As  I  live,  the  most  intimate  friend  of 
Mr.  Hastings,  my  admirer.  They  are  never  asunder. 
I  believe  you  must  have  seen  him  when  we  lived  ia 
town. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never. 

Miss  Neville.  He's  a  very  singular  character,  I  as- 
sure you.  Among  women  of  reputation  and  virtue, 
he  is  the  modestest  man  alive  ;  but  his  acquaintance 
give  him  a  very  different  character  among  creatures 
of  another  stamp — you  understand  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  odd  character,  indeed.  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  manage  him.  What  shall  I 
do  1  Pshaw  !  think  no  more  of  him,  but  trust  to  oc- 
currences for  success.  But  how  goes  on  your  own 
affair,  my  dear?  has  my  mother  been  courting  you 
for  my  brother  Tony,  as  usual  1 

Miss  Neville.  1  have  just  come  from  one  of  our 
agreeable  tete-a  tetes.  She  has  been  saying  a  hun- 
dred tender  things  and  setting  off  her  pretty  monster 
as  the  very  pink  cf  perfection. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  her  partiality  is  such,  that 
she  actually  thinks  him  so.  A  fortune  like  yours  is 
no  small  temptation.  Besides,  as  she  has  the  sole 
management  of  it,  I'm  not  surprised  to  see  her  unwil- 
ling to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  A  fortune  like  mine,  which  chiefly 
consists  in  jewels,  is  no  such  mighty  temptation.  But, 
at  any  rate,  if  my  dear  Hastings  be  but  constant,  I 
make  no  doubt  to  be  too  hard  for  her  at  last.  How- 
ever, I  let  her  suppose  that  I  am  in  love  with  her  son  , 
and  she  never  once  dreams  that  my  affections  are 
fixed  upon  another. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  good  brother  holds  out 
stoutly.     I  could  almost  love  him  for  hating  vol;  so 

Miss  Neville.  It  is  a  good-natured  creature  at. 
torn,  and  I'm  sure  would  wish  to  see  me  married  to 
any  body  but  himself.     But  my  aunt's  bell  rings  for 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  181 

our  afternoon's  walk  round  the  improvements.  Allons  ' 
Courage  is  necessary,  as  our  affairs  are  critical. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Would  it  were  bed-time,  and  all 
were  well.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  II. — an  alehouse  room. 

Several  shabby  fellows  with  punch  and  tobacco  ;  Tony 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  a  little  higher  than  the 
rest,  a  mallet  in  his  hand, 

Omnes.  Hurrea  !  hurrea  !  hurrea  !  bravo  ! 

First  Fellow.  Now,  gentlemen,  silence  for  a  song. 
The  Squire  is  going  to  knock  himself  down  for  a  song. 

Omnes.  Ay,  a  song,  a  song  ! 

Ttmy.  Then  I'll  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  song  I 
made  upon  this  alehouse,  The  Three  Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let  schoolmasters  puzzle  their  brain, 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning; 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 

Gives  genus  a  better  discerning. 
Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  gods, 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians, 
Their  quis,  and  their  qutes,  and  their  quods, 

They're  all  but  a  parcel  of  pigeons. 

Toroddlc,  toroddle,  toroll. 

When  methodist  preachers  come  down, 

A-prcaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 
I'll  wager  the  rascals  a  crown, 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinful. 
But  when  you  come  down  with  your  pence, 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 
I'll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 

But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroU. 

Then  come,  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  arc  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever. 


u 


182  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  bare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons  ; 
But  of  all  tbe  birds  in  the  air, 

Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll. 

Omnes.  Bravo,  bravo ! 

First  Fellow.  The  Squire  has  got  some  spunk  in  him. 

Second  Fellow.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing,  bekeays 
he  never  gives  us  nothing  that's  low. 

Third  Fellow.  Oh,  damn  any  thing  that's  low,  I 
cannot  bear  it. 

Fourth  Fellow.  The  genteel  thing  is  the  genteel 
thing  at  any  time  :  if  so  be  that  a  gentleman  bees  in 
a  concatenation  accordingly. 

Third  Fellow.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it,  Master 
Muggins.  What  though  I  am  obligated  to  dance  a 
bear,  a  man  may  be  a  gentleman  for  all  that.  May 
this  be  my  poison,  if  my  bear  ever  dances  but  to  the 
very  genteelest  of  tunes ;  '  Water  Parted/  or  '  The 
minuet  in  Ariadne.' 

Second  Fellow.  What  a  pity  it  is  the  Squire  is  not 
come  to  his  own.  It  would  be  well  for  all  the  publi- 
cans withiu  ten  miles  round  of  him. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  so  it  would,  Master  Slang.  I'd 
then  shew  what  it  was  to  keep  choice  of  company. 

Second  Fellow.  Oh,  he  takes  after  his  own  father 
for  that.  To  be  sure,  old  Squire  Lumpkin  was  the 
finest  gentleman  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on.  For  winding 
the  straight  horn,  or  beating  a  thicket  for  a  hare  or  a 
wench,  he  never  had  his  fellow.  It  was  a  saying  in 
the  place,  that  he  kept  the  best  horses,  dogs,  and  girls, 
in  the  whole  county. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  when  I'm  of  age,  I'll  be  no 
bastard,  I  promise  you.  I  have  been  thinking  of  Bet 
Bouncer  and  the  miller's  gray  mare  to  begin  with. 
But  come,  my  boys,  drink  about  and  be  merry, 
for  you  pay  no  reckoning.  Well,  Stingo,  what's  the 
matter" 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  183 

Enter  Landlord. 

landlord.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a  post-chaise 
at  the  door.  They  have  lost  their  way  upo'  the  forest ; 
and  they  are  talking  something  about  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be  the 
gentleman  that's  coming  down  to  court  my  sister.  Do 
they  seem  to  be  Londoners  1 

Landlord.  1  believe  they  may.  They  look  woun- 
dily  like  Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and  I'll 
set  them  right  in  a  twinkling.  (Exit  Landlord.) 
Gentlemen,  as  they  mayn't  be  good  enough  company 
for  you,  step  down  for  a  moment,  and  I'll  be  with  you 
in  the  squeezing  of  a  lemon.  [Exeunt  mob. 

Tony.  {Alone.)  Father-in-law  has  been  calling  me 
whelp  and  hound  this  half-year.  Now,  if  I  pleased, 
I  could  be  so  revenged  upon  the  old  grumbletonian. 
But  then  I'm  afraid — afraid  of  what'!  I  shall  soon  be 
worth  fifteen  hundred  a-year,  and  let  him  frighten  me 
out  of  that  if  he  can. 

Enter  Landlord,  conducting  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Marlow.  What  a  tedious  uncomfortable  day  have 
we  had  of  it!  We  were  told  it  was  but  forty  miles 
across  the  country,  and  we  have  come  above  three- 
score. 

Hastings.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccount- 
able reserve  of  yours,  that  would  not  let  us  inquire 
more  frequently  on  the  way. 

Marlow.  I  own,  Hastings,  I  am  unwilling  to  lay 
myself  under  an  obligation  to  every  one  I  meet ;  and 
often  stand  the  chance  of  an  unmannerly  answer. 

Hustings.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely  to 
receive  anv  answer. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen.  Bat  I'm  told  you 
have  been  inquiring  for  one  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  these 
parts.  Do  you  know  what  part  of  the  country  you 
are  in  ? 


lai  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Hastings.  Not  in  the  least,  sir,  but  should  thank 
you  for  information. 

Tony.  Nor  the  way  you  came? 

Hastings.  No,  sir ;  but  if  you  can  inform  us— — 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the 
road  you  are  going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the  road 
you  came,  the  first  thing  I  have  to  inform  you  is,  that 
— you  have  lost  your  way. 

Marlow.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that. 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask 
the  place  from  whence  you  came  ? 

Marlow.  That's  not  necessary  towards  directing  us 
where  we  are  to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence ;  but  question  for  question  is  all 
fair,  you  know.  Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this  same 
Hardcastle  a  cross-grained,  old-fashioned,  whimsical 
fellow,  with  an  ugly  face ;  a  daughter,  and  a  pretty 
son  ? 

Hastings.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman ;  but  he 
has  the  family  you  mention. 

Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,  trapesing,  trolloping, 
talkative  maypole  ;  the  son,  a  pretty,  well-bred,  agree- 
able youth,  that  every  body  is  fond  of? 

Marlow.  Our  information  differs  in  this.  The  daugh- 
ter is  said  to  be  well-bred,  and  beautiful ;  the  son  an 
awkward  booby,  reared  up  and  spoiled  at  his  mother's 
apron-string. 

Tony.  He-he-hem ! — Then,  gentlemen,  all  I  have 
to  tell  you  is,  that  you  won't  reach  Mr.  Hardcastle's 
house  this  night,  I  believe. 

Hastings.  Unfortunate! 

Tony.  It's  a  damned  long,  dark,  boggy,  dirty,  dan- 
gerous way.  Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the  way  to 
Mr.  Hardcastle's  {winking  upon  the  Landlord),  Mr. 
Hardcastle's,  of  Quagmire  Marsh — you  understand 
me? 

Landlord.  Master  Hardcastle's !  Lock-a-daisy,  my 
masters,  you're  come  a  deadly  deal  wrong !  When 
you  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  you  should  have 
crossed  down  Squash  Lane. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  185 

Marlow.  Cross  down  Squash  Lane  ! 

Landlord.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  forward, 
till  you  came  to  four  roads. 

Marlow.  Come  to  where  four  roads  meet"? 

Tony.  Ay  ;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only  one 
of  them. 

Marlow.  O  sir,  you're  facetious. 

Tony.  Then  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go  side- 
ways, till  you  come  upon  Crack-skull  common  :  there 
you  must  look  sharp  for  the  track  of  the  wheel,  and 
go  forward  till  you  come  to  farmer  Murrain's  barn. 
Comino-  to  the  farmer's  barn,  you  are  to  turn  to  the 
right,  a°nd  then  to  the  left,  and  then  to  the  right  about 

again,  till  you  find  out  the  old  mill 

°  Marlow.  Zounds,  man  !  we  could  as  soon  find  out 
the  longitude ! 

Hastings.  What's  to  be  done,  Marlow  1 

Marlow.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor  reception  ; 
though  perhaps  the  landlord  can  accommodate  us. 

Landlord.  Alack,  master,  we  have  but  one  spare 
bed  in  the  whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  my  knowledge,  that's  taken  up  by 
three  lodgers  already.  (After  a  pause  in  which  the 
rest  seem  disconcerted)  1  have  hit  it :  don't  you  think, 
Stingo,  our  landlady  could  accommodate  the  gentle- 
menby  the  fire-side,  with— three  chairs  and  a  bolster. 

Hastings.  1  hate  sleeping  by  the  fire-side. 

Marlow.   And  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and   a 

bolster.  . 

Tony.  You  do,  do  you  1— then,  let  me  see,— wuat 
if  you  **o  on  a  mile  farther,  to  the  Buck's  Head  ;  the 
old  Buck's  Head  on  the  hill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in 
the  whole  country. 

Hastings.  O  ho  !  so  we  have  escaped  an  adventure 
for  this  night,  however. 

landlord.  (Apart  to  Tony.)  Sure,  you  ben  t  send- 
ing them  to  your  father's  as  an  inn,  be  you  1 

''Tony.  Mum,  vou  fool  you.  Let  them  find  that  out. 
I  To  them)  You  have  only  to  keep  on  straight  forward, 
till  you  come  to  a  large  old  house  by  the  read  side. 


IHG  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

You'll  see  a  pair  of  large  horns  over  the  door.  That's 
the  sign.  Drive  up  the  yard,  and  call  stoutly  about 
you. 

Hastings.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The  servants 
can't  miss  the  way  1 

Tony.  No,  no  :  but  I  tell  you  though,  the  landlord 
is  rich,  and  going  to  leave  off  business ;  so  he  wants 
to  be  thought  a  gentleman,  saving  your  presence,  he  ! 
he  !  he  !  He'll  be  for  giving  you  his  company  ;  and, 
ecod,  if  you  mind  him,  he'll  persuade  you  that  his 
mother  was  an  alderman,  and  his  aunt  a  justice  of 
peace. 

Landlord.  A  troublesome  old  blade,  to  be  sure ;  but 
a  keeps  as  good  wines  and  beds  as  any  in  the  whole 
country. 

Marlow.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we  shall 
want  no  farther  connexion.  'We  are  to  turn  to  the 
right,  did  you  say  1 

Tony.  No,  no,  straight  forward  ;  I'll  just  step 
myself,  and  shew  you  a  piece  of  the  way.  (To  the 
Landlord)  Mum  ! 

Landlord.  Ah,  bless  your  heart,  for  a  sweet,  plea- 
sant   damned  mischievous  son  of  a  whore. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  SECOND. 

Scene  I. — an  old-fashioned  house. 

Enter  Hardcastle,  followed  by  three  or  four  awkward 
Servants. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I  hope  you  are  perfect  in  the 
table  exercise  I  have  been  teaching  you  these  three 
days.  You  all  know  your  posts  and  your  places,  and 
can  shew  that  you  have  been  used  to  good  company, 
without  ever  stirring  from  home. 

Omnes.  Ay,  ay. 

Hardcastle.  When  company  comes,  you  are  not  to 
pop  out  and  stare,  and  then  run  in  again,  like  frighted 
rabbits  in  a  warren. 


i3^z 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  187 

Omnes.  No,  no. 

Hardcastle.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken 
from  the  barn,  are  to  make  a  show  at  the  side-table ; 
and  you,  Roger,  whom  I  have  advanced  from  the 
plough,  are  to  place  yourself  behind  my  chair.  But 
you're  not  to  stand  so,  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets. 
Take  your  hands  from  your  pockets,  Roger — and  from 
your  head,  you  blockhead  you.  See  how  Diggory 
carries  his  hands.  They're  a  little  too  stiff,  indeed, 
but  that's  no  great  matter. 

Diggory.  Ay,  mind  how  I  hold  them.  I  learned  to 
hold  my  hands  this  way,  when  I  was  upon  drill  for 
the  malitia.     And  so  being  upon  drill — 

Hardcastle.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Diggory. 
You  must  be  all  attention  to  the  guests ;  you  must 
hear  us  talk,  and  not  think  of  talking  ;  you  must  see 
us  drink,  and  not  think  of  drinking ;  you  must  see  us 
eat,  and  not  think  of  eating. 

Diggory.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that's  par- 
fectly  impossible.  Whenever  Diggory  sees  yeating 
forward,  ecod,  he's  always  wishing  for  a  mouthful 
himself. 

Hardcastle.  Blockhead  !  is  not  a  bellyful  in  the 
kitchen  as  good  as  a  bellyful  in  the  parlour  1  Stay 
your  stomach  with  that  reflection. 

Diggory.  Ecod,  I  thank  your  worship,  I'll  make  a 
shift  to  stay  my  stomach  with  a  slice  of  cold  beef  in 
the  pantry. 

Hardcastle.  Diggory,  you  are  too  talkative.  Then, 
if  1  happen  to  say  a  good  thing,  or  tell  a  good  story, 
at  table,  you  must  riot  all  burst  out  a-laughing,  as  if 
you  made  part  of  the  company. 

Diggory.  Then,  ecod,  your  worship  roust  not  tell 
the  story  of  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room  ;  I  can't 
help  laughing  at  that — he!  he!  he! — for  the  soul  of 
me.  We  have  laughed  at  that  these  twenty  years — 
ha!  ha!  ha! 

Hardcastle.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  The  story  is  a  good 
one.  Well,  honest  Diggory,  you  may  laugh  at  that ; 
but  still  remember  to  be  attentive.     Suppose  one  of 


18S  SHE  STOOPS  l'O  CONQUER. 

the  company  should  call  for  a  glass  of  wine,  how  will 
you  behave  1  A  glass  of  wine,  sir,  if  you  please,  (To 
Diggory) — Eh,  why  don't  you  move? 

Diggory.  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never  have  cou- 
rage till  I  see  the  eatables  and  drinkables  brought 
upo'  the  table,  and  then  I'm  as  bauld  as  a  lion. 

Hardcastle.  What,  will  nobody  move  1 

First  Servant.  I'm  not  to  leave  this  pleace. 

Second  Servant.  I'm  sure  it's  no  pleace  of  mine. 

Third  Servant.  Nor  mine,  for  sartain. 

Diggory.  Wauns,  and  I'm  sure  it  canna  be  mine. 

Hardcastle.  You  numskulls !  and  so  while,  like 
your  betters,  you  are  quarrelling  for  places,  the  guests 
must  be  starved.  O  you  dunces  !  I  find  I  must  begin 

all  over  again But  don't  I  hear  a  coach  drive  into 

the  yard  ?  To  your  posts,  you  blockheads.  I'll  go 
in  the  mean  time,  and  give  my  old  friend's  son  a  hearty 
welcome  at  the  gate.  [Exit  Hardcastie. 

Diggory.  By  the  elevens,  my  place  is  quite  gone 
out  of  my  head. 

Roger.  I  know  that  my  place  is  to  be  every  where. 

First  Servant.  Where  the  devil  is  mine? 

Second  Servant.  My  pleace  is  to  be  no  where  at  all ; 
and  so  Ize  go  about  my  business. 

[Exeunt  Servants,  running  about,  as  if 
frightened,  several  ways. 

Enter  Servant,  with  candles,  shewing  in  Marlow  and 
Hastings. 

Servarit.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  welcome ! 
This  way. 

Hastings.  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day, 
welcome  once  more.  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a 
clean  room  and  a  good  fire.  Upon  my  word,  a  very 
well-looking  house  ;  antique,  but  creditable. 

Marlow.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  mansion.  Hav- 
ing first  ruined  the  master  by  good  house-keeping,  it 
at  last  comes  to  levy  coaf.ributions  as  an  inn. 

Hastings.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be  taxed 
to  pay  all  these  fineries.     1  have  often  seen  a  good 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  189 

sideboard,  or  a  marble  chimney-piece,  though  not 
actually  put  in  the  bill,  inflame  a  reckoning  confound- 
edly. 

Marlow.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in  all 
places ;  the  only  difference  is,  that  in  good  inns  you 
pay  dearly  for  luxuries,  in  bad  inns  you  are  fleeced  and 
starved. 

Hastings.  You  have  lived  pretty  much  among  them. 
In  truth  1  have  been  often  surprised,  that  you  who 
have  seen  so  much  of  the  world,  with  your  natural 
good  sense,  and  your  many  opportunities,  could  never 
yet  acquire  a  requisite  share  of  assurance. 

Marlow.  The  Englishman's  malady.  But  tell  me, 
George,  where  could  I  have  learned  that  assurance 
you  talk  of?  My  life  has  been  chiefly  spent  in  a  col- 
lege or  an  inn,  in  seclusion  from  that  lovely  part  of 
the  creation  that  chiefly  teach  men  confidence.  I 
don't  know  that  1  was  ever  familiarly  acquainted  with 
a  single  modest  woman,  except  my  mother. — But 
among  females  of  another  class,  you  know . 

Hastings.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  impudent 
enough,  of  all  conscience. 

Marlow.  They  are  of  us,  you  know. 

Hastings.  But  in  the  company  of  women  of  repu- 
tation I  never  saw  such  an  idiot — such  a  trembler  ; 
you  look  for  all  the  world  as  if  you  wanted  an  oppor- 
tunity of  stealing  out  of  the  room. 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  that's  because  I  do  want  to 
steal  out  of  the  room.  Faith,  I  have  often  formed  a 
resolution  to  break  the  ice,  and  rattle  away  at  any 
rate.  But  1  don't  know  how,  a  single  glance  from  a 
pair  of  fine  eyes  has  totally  overset  my  resolution.  An 
^impudent  fellow  may  counterfeit  modesty,  but  I'll  be 
hanged  if  a  modest  man  can  ever  counterfeit  impu- 
dence. 

Hastings.  If  you  could  but  say  half  the  fine  things 
to  them,  that  I  have  heard  you  lavish  upon  the  bar- 
maid of  an  inn,  or  even  a  college  bed-maker 

Marlow.  Why,  George,  I  can't  say  fine  things  to 
them— they  freeze,  they  petrify  me.     They  may" talk 


190  SHE  STOOLS  TO  CONQUER. 

of  a  comet,  or  a  burning  mountain,  or  some  such  ba- 
gatelle ;  but  to  me,  a  modest  woman,  drest  oat  in  all 
her  finery,  is  the  most  tremendous  object  of  the  whole 
creation. 

Hastings.  Ha !  ha  !  ha !  At  this  rate,  man,  how 
can  you  ever  expect  to  marry  ? 

Marlow.  Never ;  unless,  as  among  kings  and 
princes,  my  bride  were  to  be  courted  by  proxy.  If, 
indeed,  like  an  Eastern  bridegroom,  one  were  to  be 
introduced  to  a  wife  he  never  saw  before,  it  might  be 
endured.  But  to  go  through  all  the  terrors  of  a  formal 
courtship,  together  with  the  episode  of  aunts,  grand- 
mothers, and  cousins,  and  at  last  to  blurt  out  the 
broad  staring  question  of,  'Madam,  will  you  marry 
me  V  No,  no,  that's  a  strain  much  above  me,  1 
assure  you. 

Hastings.  I  pity  you.  But  how  do  you  intend  be- 
having to  the  lady  you  are  come  down  to  visit  at  tne 
request  of  your  father  1 

Marlow.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies :  bow  very 
low  ;  answer  yes,  or  no,  to.  all  her  demands.  But 
for  the  rest,  I  don't  think  I  shall  venture  to  look  in  her 
face  till  I  see  my  father's  again. 

Hastings.  I'm  surprised  that  one  who  is  so  warm  a 
friend,  can  be  so  cool  a  lover. 

Marlox.  To  be  explicit,  my  dear  Hastings,  my 
chief  inducement  down  was  to  be  instrumental  in  for- 
warding your  happiness,  not  my  own.  Miss  Neville 
loves  you,  the  family  don't  know  you  ;  as  my  friend, 
you  are  sure  of  a  reception,  and  let  honour  do  the 
rest. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Marlow  ! — But  I'll  suppress  the 
emotion.  Were  I*a  wretch,  meanly  seeking  to  cany 
off"  a  fortune,  you  should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world 
I  would  apply  to  for  assistance.  But  Miss  Neville's 
person  is  all  I  ask,  and  that  is  mine,  both  from  her 
deceased  father's  consent,  and  her  own  inclination. 

Marlow.  Happy  man  !  You  have  talents  and  art 
to  captivate  any  woman.  I'm  doomed  to  adore  the 
sex,  and  yet  to  converse  with  the  only  part  of  it  I  de» 


SHE  STOOTS  TO  CONQUER.  191 

spise.  This  stammer  in  my  address,  and  this  awkward 
unprepossessing  visage  of  mine,  can  never  permit  me 
to  soar  above  the  reach  of  a  milliner's  'prentice,  or  one 
of  the  duchesses  of  Drury-lane.  Pshaw  !  this  fellow 
here  to  interrupt  us. 

Eiiter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily 
welcome.  Which  is  Mr.  Marlow  1  Sir,  you  are 
heartily  welcome.  It's  not  my  way,  you  see,  to  re- 
ceive my  friends  with  my  back  to  the  fire.  T  like  to 
give  them  a  hearty  reception  in  the  old  style  at  my 
gate.  I  like  to  see  their  horses  and  trunks  taken 
care  of. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  He  has  got  our  names  from  the 
servants  already.  (  To  him)  V.  e  approve  your  cau- 
tion and  hospitality,  sir.  (To  Hustings.)  I  have 
been  thinking,  George,  of  changing  our  travelling 
dresses  in  the  morning.  I  am  grown  confoundedly 
ashamed  of  mine. 

Hardcastle.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you'll  use  no  ce- 
remony in  this  house. 

Hastings.  I  fancy,  Charles,  you're  right :  the  first 
blow  is  half  the  battle.  I  intend  opening  the  cam- 
paign with  the  white  and  gold. 

Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow — Mr.  Hastings— gentle- 
men— pray  be  under  no  restraint  in  this  house.  This 
is  Liberty-hall,  gentlemen.  You  may  do  just  as  you 
please  here. 

Marlow.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign 
too  fiercely  at  first,  we  may  want  ammunition  before 
it  is  over.  I  think  to  reserve  the  embroidery  to  secure 
a  retreat. 

Hardcastle.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  Marlow, 
puts  me  in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  when 
we  went  to  besiege  Denain.  He  first  summoned  the 
garrison- 


Marlow.  Don't  you  think  the  ventre  d'or  waistcoat 
will  do  with  the  plain  brown  ? 


—I) 


192  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Hardcastle.  He  first  summoned  the  garrison,  which 
might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men _ 

Hastings.  I  think  not :  brown  and  yellow  mix  but 
very  poorly. 

Hardcastle.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
he  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of 
about  five  thousand  men 

Marlow.  The  girls  like  finery. 

Hardcastle.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five 
thousand  men,  well  appointed  with  stores,  ammuni- 
tion, and  other  implements  of  war.  Now,  says  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough  to  George  Brooks,  that  stood 
next  to  him — You  must  have  heard  of  George  Brooks 

« I'll  pawn  my  dukedom,'  says  he,    '  but  I  take  that 

garrison  without  spilling  a  drop  of  blood.'     So 

Marlow.  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you  gave  us  a 
glass  of  punch  in  the 'mean  time  ;  it  would  help  us  to 
carrv  on  the  siege  with  vigour. 

Hardcastle.  Punch,  sir !  (Aside)  This  is  the  most 
unaccountable  kind  of  modesty  I  ever  met  with. 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  punch.  A  glass  of  warm  punch, 
after  our  journey,  will  be  comfortable.  This  is  Li- 
berty-hall, you  know. 

Enter  Roger  with  a  cup. 

Hardcastle.  Here's  a  cup,  sir. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty- 
hall,  will  only  let  us  have  just  what  he  pleases. 

Hardcastle.  (Taking  the  cup.)  I  hope  you'll  find  it 
to  your  mind.  I  have  prepared  it  with  my  own 
hands,  and  I  believe  you'll  own  the  ingredients  are 
tolerable.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me,  sir  1 
Here,  Mr.  Marlow,  here  is  to  our  better  acquaintance, 
(Drinte.) 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  A  very  impudent  fellow  this . 
but  he's  a  character,  and  I'll  humour  him  a  little. 
Sir,  my  service  to  you.     (Drinks.) 

Hastings.  (Aside.)  I  see  this  fellow  wants  to  give 
us  his  company,  and  forgets  that  he's  an  innkeeper, 
before  he  has  learned  to  be  a  gentleman. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  193 

Marlow.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my  old 
friend,  I  suppose  you  have  a  good  deal  of  business  in 
this  part  of  the  country.  Warm  work,  now  and  then, 
at  elections,  I  suppose. 

Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  I  have  long  given  that  work 
over.  Since  our  betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient 
of  electing  each  other,  there  is  no  business  '  for  us 
that  sell  ale.' 

Hastings.  So,  then,  you  have  no  turn  for  politics,  I 
find. 

Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a  time, 
indeed,  I  fretted  myself  about  the  mistakes  of  govern- 
ment, like  other  people ;  but,  finding  myself  every 
day  grow  more  angry,  and  the  government  growing 
no  better,  I  left  it  to  mend  itself.  Since  that,  I  no 
more  trouble  my  head  about  Hyder  Ally,  or  Ally 
Cawn,  than  about  Ally  Croaker.  Sir,  my  service  to 
you. 

Hastings.  So  that  with  eating  above  stairs  and 
drinking  below,  with  receiving  your  friends  within 
ana  amusing  them  without,  you  lead  a  good,  plea- 
sant, bustling  life  of  it. 

Hardcastle.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that's 
certain.  Half  the  differences  of  the  parish  are  ad- 
justed in  this  very  parlour. 

Marlow.  {After  drinking.)  And  you  have  an  ar- 
gument in  your  cup,  old  gentleman,  better  than  any 
in  Westminster-hall. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a 
little  philosophy. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever 
heard  of  an  innkeeper's  philosophy. 

Hastings.  So,  then,  like  an  experienced  general, 
you  attack  them  on  every  quarter.  If  you  find  their 
reason  manageable,  you  attack  it  with  your  philoso- 
phy ;  if  you  find  they  have  no  reason,  you  attack 
them  with  this.  Here's  your  health,  my  philosopher. 
(Drinks.) 

Hardcastle.  Good, very  good,  thank  you  ;  ha!  ha! 
ha !  Your   generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince 
K 


194  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Eugene,  when  he  fought  the  Turks,  at  the  battle  of 
Belgrade.     You  shall  hear. 

Marlow.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I  be- 
lieve it's  almost  time  to  talk  about  supper.  What 
has  your  philosophy  got  in  the  house  for  supper  ? 

Hardcastle.  For  supper,  sir!  (Aside)  Was  ever 
such  a  request  to  a  man  in  his  own  house  ! 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  supper,  sir ;  I  begin  to  feel  an 
appetite.  I  shall  make  devilish  work  to-night  in  the 
larder,  I  promise  you. 

Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  Such  a  brazen  dog  sure  never' 
my  eyes  beheld.  (To  him)  Why,  really,  sir,  as  for 
supper,  I  can't  well  tell.  My  Dorothy  and  the  cook- 
maid  settle  these  tilings  between  them.  I  leave  these 
kind  of  things  entirely  to  them. 
•    Marlow.  You  do,  do  you  ? 

Hardcastle.  Entirely.  By  the  by,  I  believe  they 
are  in  actual  consultation  upon  what's  for  supper  this 
moment  in  the  kitchen. 

Marlow.  Then  I  beg  they'll  admit  me  as  one  of 
their  privy-council.  It's  a  way  I  have  got.  When 
I  travel  1  always  choose  to  regulate  my  own  supper. 
Let  the  cook  be  called.     No  offence,  1  hope,  sir. 

Hardcastle.  O  no,  sir,  none  in  the  least ;  yet  I 
don't  know  how,  our  Bridget,  the  cook-maid,  is  not 
very  communicative  upon  these  occasions.  Should 
we  send  for  her,  she  might  scold  us  all  out  of  the 
house. 

Hastings.  Let's  see  your  list  of  the  larder,  then.  I 
ask  it  as  a  favour.  I  a'lways  match  my  appetite  to 
my  bill  of  fare. 

Marlow.  (To  Hardcastle,  who  looks  at  them  with 
surprise)  Sir,  he's  very  right,  and  it's  my  way  too. 

Hardcastle.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command  here. 
Here,  Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-night's 
supper  :  I  believe  it's  drawn  out. — Your  manner,  Mr. 
Hastings,  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  uncle,  Colonel 
Wallop.  It  was  a  saying  of  his,  that  no  man  was 
sure  of  his  supper  till  he  had  eaten  it. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  105 

Enter  Roger. 


o*- 


Hastings.  (Aside.)  All  upon  the  high  rope  !  His 
uncle  a  colonel !  we  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother 
being  a  justice  of  the  peace.  But  let's  hear  the  bill 
of  fare. 

Marlow.  (Perusing.)  What's  here  ?  For  the  first 
course  ;  for  the  second  course  ;  for  the  dessert.  The 
devil,  sir,  do  you  think  we  have  brought  down  the 
whole  Joiners'  Company,  or  the  Corporation  of  Bed- 
ford, to  eat  up  such  a  supper  1  Two  or  three  little 
things,  clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hastings.  But  let's  hear  it- 

Marlow.  (Heading.)  '  For  t|p  first  course, — at  the 
top,  a  pig,  and  pruin-sauce.' 

Hastings.  Damn  your  pig,  I  say. 

Marlow.  And  damn  your  pruin-sauce,  say  I. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are 
hungry,  pig  with  pruin-sauce  is  very  good  eating. 

Marlow.  '  At  the  bottom  a  calf's  tongue  and 
brains.' 

Hastings.  Let  your  brains  be  knocked  out,  my 
good  sir,  1  don't  like  them. 

Marlow.  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a  plate  by 
themselves. 

Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  Their  impudence  confounds 
me.  (To  them)  Gentlemen,  you  are  my  guests, 
make  what  alterations  you  please.  Is  there  any  tliino- 
else  you  wish  to  retrench,  or  alter,  gentlemen  ? 

Marlow.  '  Item  :  A  pork  pie,  a  boiled  rabbit  and 
sausnges,  a  Florentine,  a  shaking  pudding,  and  a  disk 
of  tifT — tafF — taffety  cream  !' 

Hastings.  Confound  your  made  dishes ;  I  shall  be 
as  much  at  a  loss  in  this  house  as  at  a  green  and 
yellow  dinner  at  the  French  ambassador's  table.  I'm 
for  plain  eating. 

Hardcastle.  I'm  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have 
nothing  you  like  ;  but  if  there  be  any  thing  you  have 
a  particular  fancy  to 


196  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Marlow.  Why,  really  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so  ex- 
quisite, that  any  one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as 
another.  Send  us  what  you  please.  So  much  for 
supper.  And  now  to  see  that  our  beds  are  aired,  and 
properly  taken  care  of. 

Hardcastle.  I  entreat  you'll  leave  all  that  to  me. 
You  shall  not  stir  a  step. 

Marlow.  Leave  that  to  you !  I  protest,  sir,  you 
must  excuse  me;  I  always  look  to  these  things 
myself. 

Hardcastle.  I  must  insist,  sir,  you'll  make  yourself 
easy  on  that  head. 

Marlow.  You  see  I'm  resolved  on  it.  (Aside')  A 
very  troublesome  fellow  this,  as  ever  I  met  with. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  Wr,  I'm  resolved  at  least  to  at- 
tend you.  (Aside)  This  may  be  modern  modesty, 
but  I  never  saw  any  thing  look  so  like  old-fashioned 
impudence.  [Exeunt  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hastings.  (Alone.)  So  I  find  this  fellow's  civilities 
begin  to  grow  troublesome.  But  who  can  be  angry 
at  those  assiduities  which  are  meant  to  please  him  1 — 
Ha!  what  do  I  see"!  Miss  Neville,  by  all  that'3 
happy ! 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  Hastings  !  To  what  unex- 
pected good  fortune — to  what  accident,  am  I  to 
ascribe  this  happy  meeting  1 

Hastings.  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same  question,  as 
I  could  never  have  hoped  to  meet  my  dearest  Con- 
stance at  an  inn. 

Miss  Neville.  An  inn  !  sure  you  mistake  :  my  aunt, 
my  guardian,  lives  here.  What  could  induce  you  to 
think  this  house  an  inn  ? 

Hastings.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with  whom  I 
came  down,  and  I,  have  been  sent  here  as  to  an  inn, 
I  assure  you.  A  young  fellow  whom  we  accidentally 
met  at  a  house  hard  by,  directed  us  hither. 

Miss  Neville.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of  my  hope- 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  1<J7 

ful  cousin's  tricks,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk 
so  often  ;  ha  !  tia  !  ha  ! 

Hastings.  He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for  you  ?  he 
of  whom  1  have  such  just  apprehensions  1 

Miss  Neville.  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  him,  I 
assure  you.  You'd  adore  him  if  you  knew  how  heartily 
he  despises  me.  My  aunt  knows  it  too,  and  has  un- 
dertaken to  court  me  for  him,  and  actually  begins  to 
think  she  has  made  a  conquest. 

Hastings.  Thou  dear  dissembler !  You  must  know, 
my  Constance,  I  have  just  seized  this  happy  oppor- 
tunity of  my  friend's  visit  here  to  get  admittance  into 
the  family.  The  horses  that  carried  us  down  are  now 
fatigued  with  their  journey,  but  they'll  soon  be  re- 
freshed ;  and,  then,  if  my  dearest  girl  will  trust  in  her 
faithful  Hastings,  we  shall  soon  be  landed  in  France, 
where  even  among  slaves  the  laws  of  marriage  are 
respected. 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  often  told  you,  that  though 
ready  to  obey  ycu,  I  yet  should  leave  my  little  for- 
tune behind  with  reluctance.  The  greatest  part  of  it 
was  left  me  by  my  uncle,  the  India  director,  and 
chiefly  consists  in  jewels.  I  have  been  for  some  time 
persuading  my  aunt  to  let  me  wear  them.  I  fancy 
I'm  very  near  succeeding.  The  instant  they  are  put 
into  my  possession,  you  shall  find  me  ready  to  make 
them  and  myself  yours. 

Hastings.  Perish  the  baubles  !  Your  person  is  all  I 
desire.  In  the  mean  time,  my  friend  Marlow  must 
not  be  let  into  his  mistake.  I  know  the  strange  re- 
serve of  his  temper  is  such,  that  if  abruptly  informed 
of  it,  he  would  instantly  quit  the  house  before  our  plan 
was  ripe  for  execution. 

Miss  Neville.  But  how  shall  we  keep  him  in  the 
deception  !  —  Miss  Hardcastle  is  just  returned  from 
walking — What  if  we  still  continue  to  deceive  him? 
This,  this  way [They  confer. 

inter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  The  assiduities  of  these  good  people  tease 
mc  beyond  bearing.     My  host  seems  to  think  it  ill 


198  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

manners  to  leave  me  alone,  and  so  he  claps  not  only 
himself,  but  his  old-fashioned  wife  on  my  back.  They 
talk  of  coming  to  sup  with  us  too  ;  and  then,  I  suppose, 
we  are  to  run  the  gauntlet  through  all  the  rest  of  the 
family. — What  have  we  got  here  ? 

Hastings.  My  dear  Charles  !  Let  me  congratulate 
you — The  most  fortunate  accident! — Who  do  you 
think  is  just  alighted? 

Marlow.  Cannot  guess. 

Hastings.  Our  mistresses,  boy,  Miss  Hardcastle  and 
Miss  Neville.  Give  me  leave  to  introduce  Miss  Con- 
stance Neville  to  your  acquaintance.  Happening  to 
dine  in  the  neighbourhood,  they  called  on  their  return 
to  take  fresh  horses  here.  Miss  Hardcastle  has  just 
stept  into  the  next  room,  and  will  be  back  in  an  instant. 
Wasn't  it  lucky?  eh! 

Marlow.  {Aside.)  I  have  been  mortified  enough  of 
all  conscience,  and  here  comes  something  to  complete 
my  embarrassment. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  wasn't  it  the  most  fortunate 
thing  in  the  world  ? 

Marlow.  Oh,  yes.  Very  fortunate — a  most  joyful 
encounter.  But  our  dresses,  George,  you  know,  are 
in  disorder — What  if  we  should  postpone  the  happi- 
ness till  to-morrow? — To-morrow  at  her  own  house — 
It  wih  be  every  bit  as  convenient — and  rather  more 
respectful — To-morrow  let  it  be.  [Offering  to  go. 

Miss  Neville.  By  no  means,  sir.  Your  ceremony 
will  displease  her.  The  disorder  of  your  dress  will 
shew  the  ardour  of  your  impatience.  Besides,  she 
knows  you  are  in  the  house,  and  will  permit  you  to 
see  her. 

Marlow.  Oh,  the  devil !  How  shall  I  support  it? — 
Hem  !  hem  !  Hastings,  you  must  not  go.  You  are 
to  assist  me,  you  know  I  shall  be  confoundedly  ridi- 
culous.    Yet  hang  it!  I'll  take  courage.     Hem  ! 

Hastings.  Pshaw,  man !  it's  but  the  first  plunge, 
and  all's  over.     She's  bu»  a  woman,  you  know. 

Marlow.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I  dread  most 
to  encounter. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  199 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle,  as  returned  from  walking. 

Hastings.  (Introducing  them.)  Miss  Hardcastle, 
Mr.  Marlow,  I'm  proud  of  bringing  two  persons  of 
such  merit  together,  that  only  want  to  know,  to  esteem 
each  other. 

Miss  Hardcastle.   (Aside)    Now   for   meeting   my 
modest  gentleman  with  a  demure  face,  and  quite  in  his 
own  manner.  (After  a  pause,  in  which  he  appears  very 
uneasy  and  disconcerted)  I'm  glad  of  your  safe  arrival 
sir.     I'm  told  you  had  some  accidents  by  the  way. 

Marlow.  Only  a  few,  madam.  Yes,  we  had  some 
Yes,  madam,  a  good  many  accidents,  but  should  be 
sorry — madam — or  rather  glad  of  any  accidents — that 
are  so  agreeably  concluded.     Hem  ! 

Hastings.  (To  him)  You  never  spoke  better  in 
your  whole  life.  Keep  it  up,  and  I'll  insure  you  the 
victory. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  afraid  you  flatter,  sir.  You 
that  have  seen  so  much  of  the  finest  company,  can 
find  little  entertainment  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the 
country. 

Marlow.  (Gathering  courage.)  I  have  lived,  indeed, 
in  the  world,  madam  ;  but  I  have  kept  very  little 
company.  I  have  been  but  an  obrerver  upon  life, 
madam,  while  others  were  enjoying  it. 

Miss  Neville.  But  that,  1  am  told,  is  the  way  to 
enjoy  it  at  last. 

Hastings.  (To  him)  Cicero  never  spoke  better. 
Once  more,  and  you  are  confirmed  in  assurance  for 
ever. 

Marlow.  (To  him)  Hem!  stand  by  me  then,  and 
when  I'm  down,  throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  set  me  up 
again. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  observer,  like  you,  upon  life, 
were,  I  fear,  disagreeably  employed,  since  you  must 
have  had  mitch  more  to  censure  than  to  approve. 

Marlow.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  always  willing 
to  be  amused.  The  folly  of  most  people  is  rather  an 
object  of  mirth  than  uneasiness. 


200  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Hastings.  (To  him)  Bravo,  bravo.  Never  spoke 
so  well  in  your  whole  life.  Well,  Miss  Hardcastle,  I 
see  that  you  and  Mr.  Marlow  are  going  to  be  very 
good  company.  I  believe  our  being  here  will  but 
embarrass  the  interview. 

Marlow.  Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Hastings.  We  like 
your  company  of  all  things.  (To  him)  Zounds! 
George,  sure  you  won't  go-!  how  can  you  leave  us? 

Hastings.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil  conversation, 
so  we'll  retire  to  the  next  room.  (To  him)  You  don't 
consider,  man,  that  we  are  to  manage  a  little  tete-a- 
tete  of  our  own.  [Exeunt. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (After  a  pause.}  But  you  have 
not  been  wholly  an  observer,  I  presume,  sir :  the 
ladies,  I  should  hope,  have  employed  some  part  of 
your  addresses. 

Marlow.  (Relapsing  into  timidity.)  Pardon  me, 
madam,  1 — I — I — as  yet  have  studied — only — to — 
deserve  them. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  that,  some  say,  is  the  very 
worst  way  to  obtain  them. 

Marlow.  Perhaps  so,  madam.  But  I  love  to  con- 
verse only  with  the  more  grave  and  sensible  part  of 
the  sex — But  I'm  afraid  I  grow  tiresome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Not  at  all,  sir;  there  is  nothing  I 
like  so  much  as  grave  conversation  myself;  I  could 
hear  it  for  ever.  Indeed  I  have  often  been  surprised 
how  a  man  of  sentiment  could  ever  admire  those  light 
airy  pleasures,  where  nothing  reaches  the  heart. 

Marlow.  It's a  disease of  the  mind,  madam. 

In  the  variety  of  tastes  there  must  be  some  who, 
wanting  a  relish for um — u — um — 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  understand  you,  sir.  There 
must  be  some  who,  wanting  a  relish  for  refined  plea- 
sures, pretend  to  despise  what  they  are  incapable  of 
tasting. 

Marlow.  My  meaning,  madam,  but  infinitely  better 
expressed.     And  I  can't  help  observing a 

Miss  Hardcaitle.  (Aside)  Who  could  ever  suppose 
this  fellow  impudent  upon  some  occasions !  (To  him) 
You  were  going  to  observe,  sir 


e= 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  201 

Marlow.  I  was  observing,  madam  —  I  protest, 
madam,  I  forget  what  I  was  going  to  obsewe. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Aside)  1  vow  and  so  do  I.  (To 
him)  You  were  observing,  sir,  that  in  this  age  of 
hypocrisy — something  about  hypocrisy,  sir. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  In  this  age  of  hypocrisy, 
there  are  few  who,  upon  strict  inquiry,  do  not — a — 

a 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  understand  you  perfectly,  sir. 
Marlow.  (Aside)  Egad !   and  that's  more  than  I 
do  myself. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  mean  that,  in  this  hypocriti- 
cal age,  there  are  few  that  do  not  condemn  in  public 
what  they  practise  in  private,  and  think  they  pay  every 
debt  to  virtue  when  they  praise  it. 

Marlow.  True,  madam  ;  those  who  have  most  virtue 
in  their  mouths,  have  least  of  it  in  their  bosoms.  But 
I'm  sure  I  tire  you,  madam. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least,  sir  ;  there's  some- 
thing so  agreeable  and  spirited  in  your  manner,  such 
life  and  force — Pray,  sir,  go  on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam,  I  was  saying that  there 

are  some  occasions — when  a  total  want  of  courage, 

madam,  destroys  all  the and  puts  us upon — 

a — a — a 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  agree  with  you  entirely :  a  want 
of  courage  upon  some  occasions,  assumes  t lie  appear- 
ance of  ignorance,  and  betrays  us  when  we  most  want 
to  excel.     I  beg  you'll  proceed. 

Marloui.  Yes,  madam.  Morally  speaking,  madam — 
but  I  see  Miss  Neville  expecting  us  in  the  next  room. 
1  would  not  intrude  for  the  world. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  sir,  I  never  was  more 
agreeably  entertained  in  all  my  life.     Pray  go  on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam,  I  was But  she  beckons 

us  to  join  her.    Madam,  shall  1  do  myself  the  honour 
to  attend  you  1 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Well,  then,  I'll  follow. 
Marlaw.  (Aside)  This  pretty  smooth  dialogue  ha3 
done  for  me.  [Exit. 

K2 


202  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CO?  0'J;£R. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Alone.)  I  In  '■  ha  !  ha  !  Was 
there  ever  such  a  sober  sentimeut'il  interview !  I'm 
cerfaiu  he  scarce  looked  in  my  fr.ce  the  whole  time. 
Yet  the  fellow,  but  for  his  unaccountable  bashfulness, 
is  pretty  well  too.  He  has  good  sense,  but  then  so 
buried  in  his  fears,  that  it  fatigues  one  more  than  ig- 
norance. If  I  could  teach  him  a  little  confidence,  it 
would  be  doing  somebody  that  I  know  of  a  piece  o( 
service.  But  who  is  that  somebody  1  That,  faith,  is 
a  question  I  can  scarce  answer.  [Exit. 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville,  followed  by  Mrs.  Hard- 
castle and  Hastings. 

Tony.  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  cousin  Con  1 
I  wonder  you're  not  ashamed  to  be  so  very  engaging. 

Miss  Neville.  1  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak  to  one's 
own  relations,  and  not  be  to  blame. 

Tany.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  relation  yov 
want  to  make  me  though  ;  but  it  won't  do.  I  tell 
you,  cousin  Con,  it  won't  do ;  so  I  beg  you'll  keep 
your  distance — I  want  no  nearer  relationship. 

[She  follows,  coquetting  him  to  the  back  scene.  ' 

Mrs.  HardcaMe.  Well,  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings,  you 
are  very  entertaining.  There's  nothing  in  the  world 
I  love  to  talk  of  so  much  as  London,  and  the  fashions; 
though  I  was  never  there  myself. 

Mastings.  Never  there  !  You  amaze  me  !  From 
your  air  and  manner,  I  concluded  vou  had  been  bred 
all  your  life  either  at  Ranelagh,  St  James's,  or  Tower 
Wharf. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  sir,  you're  only  pleased  to 
say  so.^  We  country  persons  can  have  no  manner  at 
all.  I'm  in  love  with  the  town,  and  that  serves  to 
raise  me  above  some  of  our  neighbouring  rustics  ;  but 
who  can  have  a  manner,  that  has  never  seen  the  Pan- 
theon, the  Grotto  Gardens,  the  Borough,  and  such 
places,  where  the  nobility  chiefly  resort  1  All  I  can 
do  is  to  enjoy  London  at  second-hand.     I  take  care 

to  know  every  tete-a-tete  from  the  Scandalous  Ma^a- 

a 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


203 


sine,  and  have  all  the  fashions,  as  they  come  out,  in 
a  letter  from  the  two  Miss  Rickets  of  Crooked  Lane. 
Pray,  how  do  you  like  this  head,  Mr.  Hastings? 

Hastings.  Extremely  elegant  and  degagfie,  upon 
my  word,  madam.  Your  fiiseur  is  a  Frenchman,  I 
suppose? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  I  dressed  it  myself  from 
a  print  in  the  Ladies'  Memorandum-book  for  the  last 
year. 

Hastings.  Indeed  !  Such  a  head  in  a  side-box  at 
the  play-house,  would  draw  as  many  gazers  as  my 
Lady  Mayoress  at  a  city  ball. 

M~s.  Hurdcastle.  1  vow,  since  inoculation  began, 
there  is  no  such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  woman  ; 
so  one  must  dress  a  little  particular,  or  one  may  escape 
in  the  crowd. 

Hastings.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case,  madam, 
in  any  dress.     {Bowing.) 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yet,  what  signifies  my  dressing, 
when  I  have  such  a  piece  of  antiquity  by  my  side  as 
Mr.  Hardcastle?  all  I  can  say  will  never  argue  down 
a  single  button  from  his  clothes.  I  have  often  wanted 
him  to  throw  off  his  great  flaxen  wig,  and  where  he 
was  bald,  to  plaster  it  over,  like  my  Lord  Pately, 
with  powder. 

Hastings.  You  are  right,  madam  ;  for,  as  among 
the  ladies  there  are  none  ugly,  so  among  the.  men 
there  are  none  old. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  But  what  do  you  think  his  an- 
swer was?  Why,  with  his  usual  Gothic  vivacity,  he 
said  I  only  wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  wig  to  con- 
vert it  into  a  tlte  for  my  own  wearing. 

Hastings.  Intolerable  !  At  your  age  you  may  wear 
what  you  please,  and  it  must  become  you. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Bray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do  you 
take  to  be  the  most  fashionable  age  about  town  ? 

Hastings.  Some  time  ago,  forty  was  all  the  mode  ; 
but  I'm  told  the  ladies  intend  to  bring  up  fifty  for  the 
ensuing  wintei. 


204  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Seriously  ?  Then  I  shall  be  too 
young  for  the  fashion. 

Hastings.  No  lady  begins  now  to  put  on  jewels  till 
she's  past  forty.  For  instance,  miss  there,  in  a  polite 
circle,  would  be  considered  as  a  child — a  mere  maker 
of  samplers. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  yet,  my  niece  thinks  herself 
as  much  a  woman,  and  is  as  fond  of  jewels,  as  the 
oldest  of  us  all. 

Hastings.  Your  niece,  is  she?  And  that  young 
gentleman — a  brother  of  yours,  I  should  presume? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  son,  sir.  They  are  contracted 
to  each  other.  Observe  their  little  sports.  They  fall 
in  and  out  ten  times  a-day,  as  if  they  were  man  and 
wife  already.  {To  them)  Well,  Tony,  child,  what 
soft  things  are  you  saying  to  your  cousin  Constance 
this  evening;  ? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things  ;  but  that 
it's  very  hard  to  be  followed  about  so.  Ecod !  I've 
not  a  place  in  the  house  now  that's  left  to  myself,  but 
the  stable. 

Mr*.  Hardcastle.  Never  mind  him,  Con,  my  dear  : 
he's  in  another  story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Neville.  There's  something  generous  in  my 
cousin's  manner.  He  falls  out  before  faces,  to  be  for- 
given in  private. 

Tony.  That's  a  damned  confounded — crack. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ah  !  he's  a  sly  one.  Don't  you 
think  they're  like  each  other  about  the  mouth,  Mr. 
Hastings  ?  The  Blenkinsop  mouth  to  a  T.  They're 
of  a  size  too.  Back  to  back,  my  pretties,  that  Mr. 
Hastings  may  see  you.     Come,  Tony. 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I  tell  you. 

(Measuring.) 

Miss  Neville.  O  lud  !  he  has  almost  cracked  mv 
head. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  the  monster !  for  shame, 
Tony.     You  a  man,  and  beheve  so  ! 

Tony.  If  I'm  a  man,  let  me  have  my  fortin.  Ecod ! 
I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  205 

Ms.  Jlardcmtle.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all  that 
I'm  to  get  for  the  pains  I  have  taken  in  your  educa- 
tion ?  I  that  have  rocked  you  iu  your  cradle,  and 
fed  that  pretty  mouth  with  a  spoon  !  Did  not  I  work 
that  waistcoat  to  make  you  genteel  ?  Did  not  I  pre- 
scribe for  you  every  day,  and  weep  while  the  receipt 
was  operating  ? 

Tony.  Ecod !  you  bad  reason  to  weep,  for  you 
have  been  dosing  me  ever  since  I  was  born.  I  have 
gone  through  svery  receipt  in  the  Complete  House- 
wife ten  times  over;  and  you  have  thoughts  of  cours- 
ing me  through  Quincey  next  spring.  But,  ecod  !  I 
tell  you,  I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hardcasile.  Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good, 
viper?     Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good  ? 

Tony.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  and  my  good  alone, 
then.  Snubbing  this  way  when  I'm  in  spirits  !  If  I'm 
to  have  any  good,  let  it  come  of  itself;  not  to  keep 
dinging  it,  dinging  it  into  one  so. 

Mrs.  llnrdcubtle.  That's  false ;  I  never  see  you 
when  you're  in  spirits.  No,  Tony,  you  then  go  to 
the  alehouse  or  kennel.  I'm  never  to  be  delighted 
with  your  ngrceable  wild  notes,  unfeeling  monster  ! 

Tony.  1  j-od !  mamma,  your  own  notes  are  the 
wildest  of  the  two. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  ever  the  like?  But  I  see  he 
wants  to  break  my  heart ;  I  see  he  does. 

Huntings.  Dear  madam,  permit  me  to  lecture  the 
young  gentleman  a  little.  I'm  certain  I  can  per- 
suade him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  I  must  retire.  Come, 
Constance,  my  love.  You  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  the 
wretchedness  of  my  situation  :  was  ever  poor  woman 
so  plagued  with  a  dear,  sweet,  pretty,  provoking,  un- 
dutiful  boy!  [Exeunt  Mrs.  Hardcastle  und  Miss  Neville. 

Tony.  (Singing.) 

There  was  a  young  man  riding  by, 
And  lain  would  have  his  will. 

Uang  do  didlo  dee. 


206  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Don't  mind  her.  Let  her  cry.  It's  the  comfort  of 
her  heart.  I  have  seen  her  and  sister  cry  over  a  book 
for  an  hour  together ;  and  they  said  they  liked  the 
book  the  better  the  more  it  made  them  cry. 

Hastings.  Then  you're  no  friend  to  the  ladies,  I 
find,  my  pretty  young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  That's  as  1  find  'um. 

Hastings.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother's  choosing,  I 
dare  answer?  And  yet  she  appears  to  me  a  pretty, 
well-tempered  girl. 

Tony.  That's  because  you  don't  know  her  as  well 
as  I.  Ecod  !  I  know  every  inch  about  her ;  and 
there's  not  a  more  bitter  cantanckerous  toad  in  all 
Christendom. 

Hastings.  (Aide)  Pretty  encouragement  this  for 
a  lover  ! 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of  that. 
She  has  as  many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a  thicket,  or  a  colt 
the  first  day's  breaking. 

Hastings.  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and  silent. 

Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  when  she's  with 
her  playmates,  she's  as  loud  as  a  hog  in  a  gate.    - 

Hastings.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about  her 
that  charms  me. 

Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she  kicks 
up,  and  you're  flung  in  a  ditch. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a  little 
beauty. — Yes,  you  must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony.  Bandbox  !  She's  all  a  made-up  thing,  mun. 
Ah  !  could  you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer  of  these  parts, 
you  might  then  talk  of  beauty.  Ecod  !  she  has  two 
eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  and  chee"ks  as  broad  and  red 
as  a  pulpit  cushion.     She'd  make  two  of  she. 

Hastings.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that 
would  take  this  bitter  bargain  off  your  hands  1 

Tony.  Anan ! 

Hastings.  Would  you  thank  him  that  would  take 
Miss  Neville,  and  leave  you  to  happiness  and  your 
dear  Betsey  1 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  207 

Tony.  Ay;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend— for 
who  would  take  her? 

Hastings.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I'll  en- 
gage  to  whip  her  off  to  France,  and  you  shall  never 
hear  more  of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you  !  Ecod  I  will  to  the  last  drop  of 
my  blood  I'll  Clap  a  pair  of  horses  to  jour  chaise 
that  shall  trundle  you  off  in  a  twinkling  and  may  be 
get  you  a  part  of  herrfortin  beside,  in  jewels,  that  you 
little  dream  of.  ' 

Hastings.  My  dear  squire,  this  looks  like  a  lad  of 
Spirit. 

Tony.  Com€ i  along,  then,  and  vou  shall  see  more 
of  my  spirit  before  you  have  done  with  me. 

We  are  the  boys,  (.Singing.) 

That  fears  no  noise, 

Where  the  thundering  cannons  roar. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT     THIRD. 
Enter  Hardcastle. 
hardcastte.  What  could  my  old  friend  Sir  Charles 
mean    by  recommending   his   son   as   the   modestest 
young  man  m  town  1     To  me  he  appears  the  most 
impudent  pleceot  brass  that  ever  spoke  with  a  tonoue 
He  has  tanen  possession  of  the  easv  chair  by  the  fire- 
Siue  already.     JJe  took  off  his  boots  in  the  parlour, 
and  desired   me  to  see  them  taken  care  of.     I'm  de 
s.rous  to  know  how  his  impudence  affects  my  daughter, 
bhe  will  certainly  be  shocked  at  it.  ° 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle,  plainly  dressed. 
B'rdcastle.  Well I  my  Kate,  I  see  you  have  changed 
your  dress    as  1  b,d  you;  and  yet,  I  believe,   there 
was  no  great  occasion. 


208  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  1  find  such  a  pleasure,  sir,  in 
obeying'  your  commands,  that  I  take  care  to  observe 
them  without  ever  debating  their  propriety. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet  Kate,  I  sometimes  give  you 
some  cause,  particularly  when  I  recommended  my 
modest  gentleman  to  you  as  a  lover  to-dav 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  taught  me  to  expect  some- 
thing extraordinary,  and  I  find  the  original  exceeds  the 
description. 

Hardcastle.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life  J— ■ 
lie  has  quite  confounded  all  my  faculties. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  saw  any  thing  like  it ;  and 
a  man  of  the  world  too  ! 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad — what  a 
fool  was  I,  to  think  a  young  man  could  learn  modesty 
by  travelling.  He  might  as  soon  learn  wit  at  a  mas- 
querade. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  It  seems  all  natcal  to  rim. 

Hardcastle.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  company 
and  a  French  dancing-master. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sure  you  mistake,  papa.  A 
French  dancing-master  could  never  have  taught  him 
that  timid  look — that  awkward  address — that  bashful 
manner. 

Hardcastle.  Whose  look?  whose  manner,  child  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow's  :  his  mauvaise  hmile, 
his  timidity,  struck  me  at  the  first  sight. 

Hardcastle.  Then  your  first  sight  deceived  you  :  tor 
I  think  him  one  of  the  most  brazen  first  sights  that 
ever  astonished  my  senses. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sure,  sir,  you  rally!  I  never  saw 
any  one  so  modest. 

Hardcastle.  And  can  you  be  serious  1  I  never  saw 
such  a  bouncing,  swaggering  puppy  since  1  was  born. 
Bully  Dawson  was  but  a  fool  to  him. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Surprising  !  He  met  me  with  a 
respectful  bow,  a  stammering  voice,  and  a  look  fixed 
on  the  ground. 

Hardcastle.  He  met  me  with  a  loud  voice,  a  lordly 
air,  and  a  familiarity  that  made  my  blood  freeze  again. 


SIIK  STOOPS  TO  CONQl'ER.  209 

Misi  Hardcastle.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence  and 
respect ;  censured  tlie  manners  of  the  age  ;  admired 
the  prudence  of  girls  that  never  laughed  ,  tired  me 
with  apologies  (or  being  tiresome,  then  left  the  room 
with  a  bow,  and  '  Madam,  I  would  not  for  the  world 
detain  you.' 

Ha'dcaitle.  lie  spoke  to  me  as  if  lie  knew  me  all 
liis  life  before ,  asked  twenty  questions,  and  never 
waited  for  an  answer  ,  interrupted  my  best  remarks 
with  :-ome  silly  pun  ,  and  when  I  was  in  my  best  story 
of  the  Duke  of  Marlboiough  and  Prince  Eugene,  he 
asked  if  I  had  not  a  good  hand  at  making  punch. 
Yes,  Kate,  he  asked  your  father  if  he  was  a  maker  of 
punch . 

Miss  Hardcaitle.  One  of  us  must  certainly  be  mis- 
taken. 

Uardcastle.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shewn  himself, 
I'm  determined  he  shall  never  have  my  consent. 

Miss  Hardcaitle  And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing  I 
take  him,  he  shall  never  have  mine. 

IIa*-dca±tte.  In  one  thing,  then,  we  are  agreed — to 
reject  him. 

M'ns  Ilardcii'tle.  Yes — but  upon  conditions.  For 
if  you  should  find  him  less  impudent,  and  I  more  pre- 
suming ;  if  you  find  him  more  respectful,  and  I  more 
importunate — I  don't  know — the  fellow  is  well  enough 
for  a  man — certainly  we  don't  meet  many  such  at  a 
horse-race  in  the  country. 

Hardcastle.  If  we  .should  find  him  so But  that's 

impossible.     The  first  appearance  has  done  my  busi- 
ness.    I'm  seldom  deceived  in  that. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  yet  there  may  be  many  good 
qualities  under  that  first  appearance. 

Hardcaitle.  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow's  outside 
to  her  taste,  she  then  sets  about  guessing  the  rest  of 
his  furniture.  With  her  a  smooth  face  stands  fcrgood 
sense,  ami  a  genteel  figure  for  every  virtue. 

Miss  Hardcaitle.  1  hope,  sir,  a  conversation  begun 
with  a  compliment  to  my  good  sense,  won't  end  with 
a  Bneer  at  my  understanding  ? 


210  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Hardcastle.  Pardon  me,  Kate.  But  if  young  Mr. 
Brazen  can  find  the  art  of  reconciling  contradictions, 
he  may  please  us  both,  perhaps. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be  mistaken, 
what  if  we  go  to  make  farther  discoveries  1 

Hardcastle.  Agreed.  But  depend  on't,  I'm  in  the 
right. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And,  depend  on't,  I'm  not  much 
m  the  wrong.  [Exeunt, 

Enter  Tony,  running  in  with  a  caiket. 

Tony.  Ecod !  I  have  got  them.  Here  they  are* 
My  cousin  Con's  necklaces,  bobs  and  all.  My  mother 
shan't  cheat  the  poor  souls  out  of  their  fortin  neither. 
O  my  genus,  is  that  you  1 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you  managed 
with  your  mother  ?  I  hope  you  have  amused  her  with 
pretending  love  for  your  cousin,  and  that  you  are 
willing  to  be  reconciled  at  last  1  Our  horses  will  be  re- 
freshed in  a  short  time,  and  we  shall  soon  be  ready  to 
set  off. 

Tmiy.  And  here's  something  to  bear  your  charges 
by  the  way  (giving  the  casket) — your  sweetheart's 
jewels.  Keep  them ;  and  hang  those,  I  say,  that 
would  rob  you  of  one  of  them. 

Hastings.  But  how  have  you  procured  them  from 
your  mother  1 

Tvny.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no 
fibs.  I  procured  them  by  the  rule  of  thumb.  If  I 
had  not  a  key  to  every  drawer  in  my  mother's  bureau, 
how  could  I  go  to  the  alehouse  so  often  as  I  do  1  An 
honest  man  may  rob  himself  of  his  own  at  any  time. 

Hastings.  Thousands  do  it  every  day.  But,  to  be 
plain  with  you,  Miss  Neville  is  endeavouring  to  pro- 
cure them  from  her  aunt  this  very  instant.     If  she 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  211 

succeeds,  it  will  be  the  most  delicate  way,  at  least,  of 
obtaining  them. 

Tony.  Well,  keep  them,  till  you  know  how  it  will 
be.  But  I  know  how  it  will  be  well  enough, — she'd 
as  soon  part  witli  the  only  sound  tooth  in  her  head. 

Hastings.  But  I  dread  the  effects  of  her  resentment, 
when  she  finds  she  has  lost  them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment,  leave  me  to 
manage  that.  I  don't  value  her  resentment  the  bounce 
of  a  cracker.  Zounds !  here  they  are.  Morrice ! 
Prance !  [Exit  Hastings. 

Tony,  Mrs.  Hardcastle,  and  Miss  Neville. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze 
me.  Such  a  girl  as  you  wast  jewels !  It  will  be 
time  enough  for  jewels,  my  dear,  twenty  years  hence, 
wnen  your  beauty  begins  to  want  repairs. 

Miss  Neville.  But  what  will  repair  beauty  at  forty, 
will  certainly  improve  it  at  twenty,  madam. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of 
none.  That  natural  blush  is  beyond  a  thousand  or- 
naments. Besides,  child,  jewels  are  quite  out  at  pre- 
sent. Don't  you  see  half  the  ladies  of  our  acquaint- 
ance, my  Lady  Kill-daylight,  and  Mrs.  Crump,  and 
the  rest  of  them,  carry  their  jewels  to  town,  and  bring 
nothing  but  paste  and  marcasites  back! 

Miss  Neville.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but  some- 
body that  shall  be  nameless  would  like  me  best  with 
ail  my  little  finery  about  me'! 

Mrs.  Hwrdcastle.  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear,  and 
then  see  if,  with  sueh  a  pair  of  eyes,  you  want  any 
better  sparklers.  .  What  do  you  think,  Tony,  my 
dew !  Does  your  cousin  Con  want  any  jewels  in 
your  eyes  to  set  off  her  beauty  ! 

Tony.  That's  as  hereafter  may  be. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew  how  it 
would  oblige  me. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  parcel  of  old-fashioned  rose  and 
lable-cut  things.     They  would  make  you  look  like 


212  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

the  court  of  King  Solomon  at  a  puppet-show.  Be- 
sides, I  believe  1  can't  readily  come  at  them.  They 
may  be  missing  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary. 

tony.  (Apart  to  Mrs.  Hardcastle.)  Then  why  don't  . 
you  tell  her  so  at  once,  as  she's  so  longing  for  them  1 
Tell  her  they're  lo^t.     It's  the  only  way  fo  quiet  her. 
Say  they're  lost,  and  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hardoastle.  (Apart  to  Tony)  You  know,  my 
dear,  I'm  only  keeping  them  for  you.  So  if  I  say 
they're  gone,  you'll  bear  me  witness,  will  you  ?  Ke ! 
he!  he! 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Ecod  !  I'll  say  I  saw  them 
taken  out  with  my  own  eyes. 

Miss  Neville.  1  desire  them  but  for  a  day,  mad^m — 
just  to  be  permitted  to  shew  them  as  relics,  and  then 
they  may  be  locked  up  again. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  dear 
Constance,  if  I  could  find  them  you  should  have 
them.  They're  missing,  I  assure  you.  Lost,  for 
aught  I  know ;  but  we  must  have  patience  wherever 
they  are. 

Miss  Neville.  I'll  not  believe  it ;  this  is  but  a  shallow 
pretence  to  deny  me.  I  know  they  are  too  valuable 
to  be  so  slightly  kept,  and  as  you  are  to  answer  tor 
the  loss 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Constance.  If 
they  be  lost,  I  must  restore  an  equivalent.  But  my 
son  knows  they  are  missing,  and  not  to  be  found. 

Jony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.  They  are  miss- 
ing, and  not  to  be  found ;  I'll  take  my  oath  on't. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  must  learn  resignation,  my 
dear ;  for  though  we  lose  our  fortune,  yet  we  should 
not  lose  our  patience.     See  me,  how  calm  I  am. 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  people  are  generally  calm  at  the 
misfortunes  of  others. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Now,  I  wonder  a  girl  of  your 
good  sense  should  waste  a  thought  upon  such  trum- 
pery. We  shall  soon  find  them  ;  and  in  the  mean  time 
you  shall  make  use  of  my  garnets  till  your  jewels  be 
found. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  213 

Miss  Kevitle.  I  detest  garnets. 

Mrs.Hardcastle.  The  most  becoming  things  in  the 

world  to  set  off  a  clear  complexion.     You  have  often 

„se«n  how  well  they  look  upon  me.     You  shall  have 

them.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  I  dislike  them  of  all  things.  You 
shan't  stir.  Was  ever  any  thing  so  provoking,  to 
mislay  my  own  jewels,  and  force  me  to  wear  her 
trumpery. 

Tony.  Don't  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you  the  gar- 
nets, take  what  you  can  get.  The  jewels  are  your 
own  already.  I  have  stolen  them  out  of  her  bureau, 
and  she  does  not  know  it.  Ply  to  your  spark ;  he'll 
tell  you  more  of  the  matter.    Leave  me  to  manage  her. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  cousin  ! 

Tony.  Vanish.  She's  here,  and  has  missed  them 
already.  [Exit  Miss  Neville.']  Zounds !  how  she 
fidgets  and  spits  about  like  a  Catharine  wheel ! 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Confusion  !  thieves  !  robbers  !  we 
are  cheated,  plundered,  broke  open,  undone. 

Tony.  What's  the  matter,  what's  the  matter,  mam- 
ma? 1  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  any  of  the  good 
family  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  We  are  robbed.  My  bureau  has 
been  broken  open,  the  jewels  taken  out,  and  I'm 
undone. 

Tony.  Oh!  is  that  all:  Ha!  ha!  ha!  By  the 
laws,  1  never  saw  it  better  acted  in  my  life.  Ecod,  I 
thought  you  was  ruined  in  earnest,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Why,  boy,  I  am  ruined  in  earnest. 
My  bureau  has  been  broken  open,  and  all  taken  away. 

Tony.  Stick  to  that,  ha!  ha!  ha!  stick  to  that. 
I'll  Ik  ir  witness,  you  know  !  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that's 
precious,  the  jewels  are  gone,  and  I  shall  be  ruined 
for  ever. 


214  .S1IR  STOOPS  10  CONQUER. 

Tmy.  Sure  I  know  lliey  are  gone,  and  I  am  to 
say  so. 

W's.  Hardcaslte.  J\Iy  dearest  Tony,  but  hear  me. 
They're  gone,  I  say. 

Tony,  liy  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make  me  for  to 
laugh,  ha  !  ha!  1  know  wlio  tool,  them  well  enough, 
ha  :  ha  !  ha ! 

Mrs.  Hardc<f>tle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  block- 
head,  that  can't  tell  the  difference  between  jest  and 
earnest !    I  tell  you  I'm  not  in  jest,  booby. 

Tony.  That's  light,  that's  right ;  you  must  be  in  a 
bitt&r  passion,  and  then  nobody  will  suspect  either 
of  us.     I'll  bear  witness  that  they  are  gone. 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  rross- 
grained  brute,  that  won't  hear  me !  Can  you  bear 
witness  that  you're  no  better  than  a  fool?  Was  ever 
poor  woman  so  beset  with  foois  on  one  hand,  and 
thieves  on  the  other ! 

Tony.   I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Ha'dcastle.  ISear  witness  again,  you  block- 
head, you,  and  I'll  turn  you  oui  of  the  roam  directlv. 
My  poor  niece,  what  will  become  of  her !  Do  you 
laugh,  you  unfeeling  brute,  as  if  you  enjoyed  mv 
distress  '. 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  llardcusilc.  Do  you  insult  me,  mcnster?  I'll 
teach  you  to  vex  your  mother,  1  will  ! 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that.  (He  runs  off,  she 
follows  him.) 

Enter  Miss  Ilardcastle  and  Maid. 

Miss  llar-lcastle.  What  an  unaccountable  creature 
is  that  brother  of  mine,  to  send  them  to  the  hou-e  as 
an  inn  .   ha!  ha!  I  don't  wonder  at  his  impudence. 

Maid.  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the  young  gen- 
tleman, as  you  passed  by  in  your  present  dress,  asked 
me  if  you  were  the  bar-maid.  Jle  mistook  you  for  the 
bar-maid,  madam  ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.   Did  he  ?    Then,  as  1  live,  I'm 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  215 

resolved  to  keep  up  the  delusion.  Tell  me,  Pimple, 
how  do  you  like  my  present  dress  I  Don't  you  think 
1  look  something  like  Cherry  in  the  Beaux'  Stratagem  ? 

Maid.  It's  the  dress,  madam,  that  every  lady  wears 
in  the  country,  but  when  she  visits  or  receives  com- 
pany. 

Miss  Hartlcastle.  And  are  you  sure  he  does  not 
remember  my  face  or  person  1 

Maid.  Certain  of  it. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  vow  I  thought  so ;  for  though 
we  spoke  for  some  time  together,  yet  his  fears  were 
such  that  he  never  once  looked  up  during  the  inter- 
view. Indeed,  if  he  had,  my  bonnet  would  have 
kept  him  from  seeing  me. 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keeping  him  in 
his  mUt;ike  1 

Miss  Hardcustle.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  be  seen, 
and  that  is  no  small  advantage  to  a  girl  who  brings 
ner  face  to  market.  Then  I  shall  perhaps  make  an 
acquaintance,  and  that's  no  small  victory  gained  over 
one  who  never  addresses  any  but  the  wildest  of  her 
sex.  But  my  chief  aim  is  to  take  my  gentleman  off 
his  guard,  and,  like  an  invisible  champion  of  romance, 
examine  the  giant's  force  before  I  offer  to  combat. 

Maid.  But  are  you  sure  you  can  act  your  part,  and 
disguise  your  voice  so  that  he  may  mistake  that,  as  he 
nas  already  mistaken  your  person  1 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never  fear  me.  I  think  I  have 
q;ot  the  true  bar  cant — Did  your  honour  call  1 — Attend 
the  Lion  there. — Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Angel. — 
The  Lamb  has  been  outrageous  this  half  hour. 

Maid.  It  will  do,  madam.     But  he's  here. 

[Exit  Maid. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Mnrlow.  What  a  bawling  in  every  part  of  the  house! 
i  nave  scarce  a  moment's  repose.  If  I  co  to  the  best 
room,  there  I  find  my  host  and  his  story  ;  if  I  fly  to 
the  gallery,  there  we  have  my  hostess  with  her  curtsey 


~i>  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

down  to  the  ground.     I  have  at  last  got  a  moment  to 
myself,  and  now  for  recollection.    [Walks  and  mines. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  you  call,  sir?  Did  your 
honour  call  ? 

Marlow.  (Musing.)  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle,  she's 
too  grave  and  sentimental  for  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.   Did  your  honour  call  1 

[She  still  places  herself  before  him, 
he  turning  away. 

Mar  tow.  No,  child.  (Musing)  Besides,  frcm  the 
glimpse  I  had  of  her,  I  think  she  squints. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  sure,  sir,  I  heard  the  bell 
ring. 

Marlow.  No,  no.  (Musing)  I  have  pleased  my 
father,  however,  by  coming  down,  and  I'll  to-morrow 
please  myself  by  returning.  (Taking  out  his  tablets  and 
perusing.) 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Perhaps  the  other  gentleman 
called,  sir  1 

Marlow.  I  tell  you  no. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  sir :  we 
have  such  a  parcel  of  servants. 

Marlow.  No,  no,  I  tell  you.  (Leoks  full  in  her  face) 
Yes,  child,  I  think  I  did  call.  I  wanted — I  wanted 
— I  vow,  child,  you  are  vastly  handsome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  0  la,  sir,  you'll  make  one 
ashamed. 

Marlow.  Never  saw  a  mare  sprightly  malicious  eye. 
Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  did  call.  Have  you  got  any  of 
your — a — what  d'ye  call  it,  in  the  house  1 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  we  have  been  out  o(  that 
these  ten  days. 

Marlow.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  I  find,  to 
very  little  purpose.  Suppose  I  should  call  for  a  taste, 
just  by  way  of  trial,  of  the  nectar  of  your  lips,  per- 
haps I  might  be  disappointed  in  that  too. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Nectar!  nectar!  That's  a  liquor 
there's  no  call  for  in  these  parts.  French,  I  suppose. 
We  keep  no  French  wines  here,  sir. 

Marlow.  Of  true  English  growth,  I  assure  you. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  217 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  it's  odd  I  should  not  know 
it.  We  brew  all  sorts  of  wines  in  this  house,  and  I 
have  lived  here  these  eighteen  years. 

Marlow.  Eighteen  years !  Why,  one  would  think, 
child,  you  kept  the  bar  before  you  were  born.  How 
old  are  you  1 

Mi>s  Hardcastle.  Oh,  sir,  I  must  not  tell  my  age. 
They  say  women  and  music  should  never  be  dated. 

Marlow.  To  guess  at  this  distance,  you  can't  be 
much  above  forty.  (Approaching)  Yet  nearer,  I 
don't  think  so  much.  (Approaching)  By  coming 
close  to  some  women,  they  look  younger  still ;  but 
when  we  come  very  close  indeed — (Attempting  to  kiss 
her.) 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Pray,  sir,  keep  your  distance.  One 
would  think  you  wanted  to  know  one's  age  as  they  do 
horses,  by  mark  of  mouth. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  extremely  ill. 
If  you  keep  me  at  this  distance,  how  is  it  possible  you 
and  f  can  ever  be  acquainted? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  who  wants  to  be  acquainted 
with  you  1  I  want  no  such  acquaintance,  not  I.  I'm 
sure  you  did  not  treat  Miss  Hardcastle,  that  was  here 
a  while  ago,  in  this  obstropalous  manner.  I'll  war- 
rant me,  before  her  you  looked  dashed,  and  kept 
bowing  to  the  ground,  and  talked,  for  all  the  world, 
as  if  you  were  before  a  justice  of  the  peace. 

Marlow.  (AMe)  Egad,  she  has  hit  it,  sure  enough  ! 
(Toher)  In  awe  of  her,  child  ?  Ha!  ha  !  ha !  A 
mere  awkward,  squinting  thing  !  No,  no.  I  find  you 
don't  know  me.  I  laughed  and  rallied  her  a  little  ; 
but  I  was  unwilling  to  be  too  severe.  No,  I  could 
not  be  too  severe,  curse  me  ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Oh,  then,  sir,  you  are  a  favourite, 
1  find,  among  the  ladies'! 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favourite.  And 
yet,  hang  me,  I  don't  see  what  they  find  in  me  to 
follow.  At  the  ladies'  club  in  town  I'm  called  their 
agreeable  Rattle.  Rattle,  child,  is  not  my  real  name, 
but  one  I'm  known  by.  ]\ly  name  is  Solomons;  Mr. 
L 


218  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Solomons,  my  clear,  at  your  service.  (Offering  to 
salute  her.) 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Hold,  sir,  you  are  introducing  me 
to  your  club,  not  to  yourself.  And  you're  so  great  a 
favourite  there,  you  say  ! 

Murlow.  Yes,  my  dear.  There's  Mrs.  Mantrap, 
Lady  Betty  Blackleg,  the  Countess  of  Sligo,  Mrs. 
Langhorns,  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  and  your 
humble  servant,  keep  up  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  it's  a  very  merry  place,  I 
suppose  1 

Marlow.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  suppers,  wine,  and 
old  women  can  make  us. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle,  ha! 
ha  !   ha ! 

Marlow.  (Aside)  Egad !  I  don't  quite  like  this 
chit.  She  looks  knowing,  methinks.  You  laugh, 
child  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  what 
time  they  all  have  for  minding  their  work,  or  their 
family. 

Marlow.  (Aside^)  Ali's  well ;  she  don't  laugh  at 
me.  (To  her)  Do  you  ever  work,  child? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Aye,  sure.  There's  not  a  screen 
or  a  quilt  in  the  whole  house  but  what  can  bear  wit- 
ness to  that. 

Marlow.  Odso  !  then  you  must  shew  me  your  em- 
broidery. I  embroider  and  draw  patterns  myself  a 
little.  If  you  want  a  judge  of  your  work,  you  must 
apply  to  me.     (Seizing  her  hand.) 

Mm  Hardcastle.  Ay,  but  the  colours  don't  look 
well  by  candle-light.  You  shall  see  all  in  the  morn- 
ing. (Struggling.) 

Marlow.  And  why  not  now,  my  angel  ?  Such 
beauty  fires  beyond  the  power  of  resistance.  Pshaw  ' 
the  father  here  !  My  old  luck  :  I  never  nicked  seven 
that  I  did  not  throw  ames  ace  three  times  following.* 

[Exit  Marlow. 

•  Ames  act',  or  ar.ibs  ace,  is  two  ares  thrown  at  tlie  same  time  on 
two  dice.    As  seven  is  the  main,  to  throw  ames  ace  thrice  runiiiiig. 


SHE  STOOl'S  TO  COKQLER.  21<J 


Enter  Hardcaslle,  who  stands  in  surprise. 

Hardcastle.  So,  madam.  So  I  find  this  is  your 
modest  lover.  This  is  your  humble  admirer,  that 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  only  adored  at 
humble  distance.  Kate,  Kate,  art  thou  not  ashamed 
to  deceive  your  father  so  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa,  but 
he's  still  the  modest  man  I  first  took,  him  for ;  you'll 
be  convinced  of  it  as  well  as  I. 

Hardcastle.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  T  believe  his 
impudence  is  infectious  !  Didn't  I  see  him  seize  your 
hand  1  Didn't  I  see  him  hawl  you  about  like  a  milk- 
maid 1  And  now  you  talk  of  his  respect  and  his 
modesty,  forsooth ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you  of 
his  modesty,  that  he  has  only  the  faults  that  will  pass 
off  with  time,  and  the  virtues  that  will  improve  with 
age,  I  hope  you'll  forgive  him. 

Hardcastle.  The  girl  would  actually  make  one  run 
mad  !  I  tell  you  I'll  not  be  convinced.  I  am  con- 
vinced. He  has  scarcely  been  three  hours  in  the 
house,  and  he  has  already  encroached  on  all  my  pre- 
rogatives. You  may  like  his  impudence,  and  call  it 
modesty  ;  but  my  son-in-law,  madam,  must  have 
very  different  qualifications. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to  con- 
vince you. 

Hardcastle.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time,  for 
I  have  thoughts  of  turning  him  out  this  very  hour. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Give  me  that  hour,  then,  and  I 
hope  to  satisfy  you. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be  then.  But  I'll 
have  no  trifling  with  your  father.  All  fair  and  open, 
do  you  mind  me. 

wbei  the  player  nick9,  that  l«,  Lizards  his  money  on  seven,  U  slngu. 
lari}  bad  luck. 


«=: 


220  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  ever  found 
that  I  considered  your  commands  as  my  pride ;  for 
your  kindness  is  such,  that  my  duty  as  yet  has  been 
inclination.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  FOURTH. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  You  surprise  me :  Sir  Charles  Marlow 
expected  here  this  night!  Where  have  you  had  your 
information  ? 

Miss  Neville.  You  may  depend  u-pon  it.  I  just 
saw  his  letter  to  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  which  he  tells  him 
he  intends  setting  out  a  few  hours  after  his  son. 

Hastings.  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must  be  com- 
pleted before  he  arrives.  He  knows  me  ;  and  should 
he  find  me  here,  would  discover  my  name,  and,  per- 
haps, my  designs,  to  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe? 

Hastings.  Yes,  yes.  I  have  sent  them  to  Marlow, 
who  keeps  the  keys  of  our  baggage.  In  the  mean  time, 
I'll  go  to  prepare  matters  for  our  elopement.  I  have 
had  the  Squire's  promise  of  afresh  pair  of  horses; 
and  if  I  should  not  see  him  again,  will  write  him 
farther  directions.  [Eitt. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  success  attend  you  !  In  the 
mean  time,  Til  go  amuse  my  aunt  with  the  old  pre- 
tence of  a  violent  passion  for  my  cousin.  [Exit. 

Enter  Marlow,  followed  by  a  Servant. 

Marlow.  I  wonder  what  Hastings  could  mean  by 
sending  me  so  valuable  a  thing  as  a  casket  to  keep 
for  him,  when  he  knows  the  only  place  I  have  is  the 
seat  of  a  post-coach  at  an  inn-door.  Have  you  de- 
posited the  casket  with  the  landlady,  as  I  ordered 
you  ?  Have  you  put  it  into  her  own  hands'? 

Servant.  Yes,  your  honour. 

Marlow.  She  said  she'd  keep  it  safe,  did  she  1 

Servant.  Yes;  she  said  she'd  keep  it  safe  enough. 


SHE  hToui'.S   vo  UO.NqUER.  221 

She  asked  me  how  I  came  by  it ;  and  she  said  she 
had  a  great  mind  to  make  me  give  an  account  of 
myself.  [Exit  Servant. 

Marlow.  Ha.'  ha!  ha!  They're  safe,  however. 
What  an  unaccountable  6et  of  beings  have  we  got 
amongst !  This  little  bar-maid,  though,  runs  in  my 
head  most  strangely,  and  drives  out  the  absurdities  of 
all  the  rest  of  the  family.  She's  mine,  she  must  be 
mine,  or  I'm  greatly  mistaken. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  Bless  me  !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  her  that 
I  intended  to  prepare  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
Marlow  here,  and  in  spirits  too ! 

Marlow.  Give  me  joy,  George !  Crown  me,  shadow 
me  with  laurels  :  Well,  George,  after  all,  we  modest 
fellows  don't  want  for  success  among  the  women. 

Hastings.  Some  women,  you  mean.  But  what 
success  has  your  honour's  modesty  been  crowned  with 
now,  that  it  grows  so  insolent  upon  us  1 

Marlow.  Didn't  you  seethe  tempting,  brisk,  lovely, 
little  thing,  that  runs  about  the  house  with  a  bunch 
of  keys  to  Us  girdle  ? 

Hastings.   Well,  and  what  then'! 

Marlow.  She's  mine,  you  rogue  you.  Such  fire, 
such  motion,  such  eyes,  such  lips — but,  egad  !  she 
would  not  let  me  kiss  them  though. 

Hastings.  15ut  are  you  so  sure,  so  very  sure  of  her? 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  she  talked  of  shewing  me  her 
work  above  stairs,  and  I  am  to  approve  the  pattern. 

Hastings.  Iiut  how  can  you,  Charles,  go  about  to 
rob  a  woman  of  her  honour  I 

Marlow  Pshaw!  pshaw!  We  all  know  the  honour 
of  the  bar-maid  of  an  inn.  I  don't  intend  to  rob  her; 
take  my  word  tor  it ;  there's  nothing  in  this  house  1 
shan't  honestly  pay  for. 

Hastings.   1  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 

Marlow.  And  if  she  has,  1  should  be  the  last  man 
in  the  world  that  would  attempt  to  corrupt  it. 


222  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Hastings.  You  have  taken  caro,  I  hope,  of  the 
casket  I  sent  you  to  lock  up  1     It's  in  safety  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  yes  ;  it's  safe  enough.  I  have  taken 
care  of  it.  But  how  could  you  think  the  seat  of  a 
post-coach  at  an  inn-door  a  place  of  safety  &  Ah ! 
numskull !  I  have  taken  better  precautions  for  vou 
than  you  did  for  yourself — I  have 

Hastings.  What? 

Marlow.  I  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to  keep  for  you. 

Hastings.  To  the  landlady  ! 

Marlow.  The  landlady, 

Hastings.   You  did  1 

Marlow.  I  did.  She's  to  be  answerable  for  its 
forthcoming,  you  know. 

Hastings.  Yes,  she'll  bring  it  forth  with  a  witness. 

Marlow.  Wasn't  I  right  ?  I  believe  you'll  allow 
that  1  acted  prudently  upon  this  occasion. 

Hustings.  (Aside.)  He  must  not  see  my  uneasiness. 

Marlow.  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted  though, 
methiaks.     Sure  nothing  has  happened  ? 

Hastings.  No,  nothing.  Never  was  in  better  spirits 
in  all  my  life.  And  so  you  left  it  with  the  landlady, 
who,  no  doubt,  very  readily  undertook  the  charge. 

Marlow.  Rather  too  readily  ;  for  she  not  only  kept 
the  casket,  but,  through  her  great  precaution,  was 
going  to  keep  the  messenger  too.     Ha  !   ha  !  ha  ! 

Hastings.  He  !  he  !  he  !     They're  safe,  however. 

Marlow.  As  a  guinea  in  a  miser's  purse. 

Hastings.  (Aside.)  So  now  all  hopes  of  fortune  are 
at  an  end,  and  we  must  set  off  without  it.  (To  him) 
Well,  Charles,  I'll  leave  you  to  your  meditations  on 
the  pretty  bar-maid,  and,  he  !  he  !  he  !  may  you  be 
as  successful  for  yourself  as  you  have  been  for  me  ! 

[Exit. 

Marlow.  Thank  ye,  George  :  I  ask  nc  more. — 
Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Enter  Hardcaitle. 

Hardcustle.  I  no  longer  know  my  own  house.  It's 
turned  all  topsy-turvy.     His  servants  have  got  drunk 


SHE  STOOl'H  TO  CONQUER.  ■_;:; 

already.  I'll  bear  it  no  longer;  and  vet,  from  ray 
respect  for  his  father,  111  be  calm.  (To  him)  Mr. 
Marlow,  your  servant.  I'm  your  very  humble  ser- 
vant.    (Bowing  low.) 

Marlow.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.  (Aside)  What's 
to  be  the  wonder  now  1 

Hardcastle.  I  believe,  sir,  you  must  be  sensible, 
sir,  that  no  man  alive  ought  to  be  more  welcome  than 
your  father's  son,  sir.     I  hope  you  think  so  ? 

Marlow.  I  do  from  my  soul,  sir.  I  don't  want 
much  entreaty.  I  generally  make  my  father's  son 
welcome  wherever  he  goes. 

Hardcastle.  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  sir. 
]<ut  though  I  say  nothing  to  your  own  conduct,  that 
of  your  servants  is  insufferable.  Their  manner  of 
drinking  is  setting  a  very  bad  example  in  this  house,  I 
assure  you. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  my  very  good  sir,  that  is  no 
fault  of  mine.  If  they  don't  drink  as  they  ought,  they 
are  to  blame.  I  ordered  them  not  to  spare  the  cellar. 
I  did,  1  assure  you.  (To  the  side-scene)  Here,  let  one 
of  my  servants  come  up.  (To  him)  My  positive 
directions  were,  that  as  I  did  not  drink  myself,  they 
should  make  up  for  my  deficiencies  below/ 

Hardcaitle.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for  what 
they  do  ?     I'm  satisfied  ! 

Marlow.  They  had,  I  assure  you.  You  shall  hear 
it  from  one  of  themselves. 

Enter  Servant,  drunk. 

Marlow.  You,  Jeremy  !  Come  forward,  sirrah  ! 
What  were  my  orders?  Were  you  not  told  to  drink 
freely,  and  call  for  what  you  thought  fit,  for  the  <*ood 
of  the  house  ! 

Hardenstle.  (Aside.)  I  begin  to  lose  my  patience. 

Jeremy.  Please  your  honour,  liberty  and  Fleet- 
street  for  ever !  Though  I'm  but  a  servant,  I'm  as 
good  as  another  man.     I'll  drink  for  no  man  before 


224  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

supper,  sir,   damme !    God  liquor   will   sit   upon    a 

good  supper,  but  a  good  supper  will  not  sit  upon 

hiccup— — upon  my  conscience,  sir.  [Exit. 

Marloio.  You  see,  my  old  friend,  the  fellow  is  as 
drunk  as  he  can  possibly  be.  I  don't  know  what  you'd 
have  more,  unless  you'd  have  the  poor  devil  soused  in 
a  beer-barrel. 

Hardcastle.  Zounds,  he'll  drive  me  distracted,  if  I 
contain  myself  any  longer  !  Mr.  Marlow :  sir,  I 
have  submitted  to  your  insolence  for  more  than  four 
hours,  and  I  see  no  likelihood  of  its  coming  to  an  end. 
I'm  now  resolved  to  be  master  here,  sir,  and  I  desire 
that  you  and  your  drunken  pack  may  leave  my  house 
directly. 

Marlow.  Leave  your  house ! — Sure  you  jest,  my 
good  friend  1  \V  hat !  when  I'm  doing  what  I  can  to 
please  you. 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  don't  please ;  so  I 
desire  you'll  leave  my  house. 

Marloio.  Sure  you  cannot  be  serious  1  at  this  time 
o'nightj  and  such  a  night!  You  only  mean  to  banter 
me. 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I'm  serious !  and  now 
that  my  passions  are  roused,  I  say  this  house  is  mine, 
and  1  command  you  to  leave  it  directly. 

Marlow.  Ha!  ha !  ha !  A  puddle  in  a  storm.  I 
shan't  stir  a  step,  I  assure  you.  (In  a  serious  tone.') 
This  your  house,  fellow  !  It's  my  house.  This  is 
my  house.  Mine  while  I  choose  to  stay.  What  right 
have  you  to  bid  me  leave  this  house,  sir  ?  I  never  met 
with  such  impudence,  curse  me  ;  never  in  my  whole 
life  before. 

Hardcastle.  Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did  !  To 
come  to  my  house,  to  call  for  what  he  likes,  to  turn  me 
out  of  my  own  chair,  to  insult  the  family,  to  order  his 
servants  to  get  drunk,  and  then  to  tell  me,  '  This 
house  is  mine,,  sir!'  I3y  all  that's  impudent,  it  makes 
me  laugh.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Pray,  sir,  (bantering)  as 
you  take  the  house,  what  think  you  of  taking  the  rest 
of  the  furniture?    There's  a  pair  of  silver  candle- 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  225 

sticks,  and  there's  a  fire-screen,  ami  here's  a  pair  of 
brazen-nosed  bellows;  perhaps  you  may  take  a  fancy 
to  them  ? 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  sir ;  bring  me  your 
bill,  and  let's  make  no  more  words  about  it. 

Harclcastle.  There  are  a  set  of  prints,  too.  What 
think  you  of  the  Hake's  Progress  for  your  own  apart- 
ment 1 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say,  and  I'll  leave 
you  anil  vour  infernal  house  directly. 

Hardcastle.  Then  there's  a  mahogany  table  that 
you  may  see  your  face  in. 

Marlow.  My  bill,  1  say. 

Hardcastle.  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair  for  your 
own  particular  slumbers,  after  a  hearty  meal. 

Marlow.  Zounds!  bring  me  my  bill,  L  say,  and, 
let's  hear  no  more  on't. 

HardcaMe.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your 
father's  letter  to  me,  I  was  taught  to  expect  a  well-bred, 
modest  man  as  a  visitor  here,  but  now  1  find  him  no 
better  than  a  coxcomb  and  a  bully;  but  he  will  be 
down   here  presently,  and  shall  hear    more    of    it. 

[Exit. 

Marlow.  How's  this !  Sure  I  have  not  mistaken 
the  house.  Everything  looks  like  an  inn;  the  ser- 
vants cry  coming  ;  the  attendance  is  awkward  ;  the 
bar-maid,  too,  to  attend  us.  But  she's  here,  and  will 
farther  inform  me.  Whither  so  fast,  child'!  A  word 
with  you . 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Let  it  be  short  then.  I'm  in  a 
hurry.  (Aside)  I  believe  he  begins  to  find  out  his 
mistake.     But  it's  too  soon  quite  to  undeceive  him. 

Marlow.  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  question. 
What  are  you,  and  what  may  your  business  in  this 
house  be  1 

Miss  Hardcastle.  A  relation  of  the  family,  sir. 

Marlow.  What,  a  poor  relation  1 

Miss  Haidcastle.  Yes,  sir,  a  poor  relation,  ap- 
L'2 


_— 


22G  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

pointed  to  keep  the  keys,  and  to  see  that  the  guests 
want  nothing  in  my  power  to  give  them. 

Marlow.  That  is,  you  act  as  the  bar-maid  of  this 
inn. 

Miss  HardcastU.  Inn  !  O  la what  brought  that 

into  your  head?  One  cf  the  best  famibes  in  the 
county  keep  an  inn ! — Ha  1  ha  1  ha !  old  Mr.  Hard- 
castle's  house  an  inn ! 

Marlow.  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  !  Is  this  Mr. 
Hardcastle's  house,  child  1 

Miss  Hardcastk.  Ay,  sure.  Whose  else  shouM 
it  be  1 

Marlow.  So  then,  all's  out,  and  I  have  been  dam- 
nably imposed  upon.  Oh,  confound  my  stupid  head, 
I  shall  be  laughed  at  over  the  whole  town  !  I  shall 
be  stuck  up  in  caricatura  in  all  the  print-shops.  The 
Dullissimo-Maccaroni.  To  mistake  this  house  of  all 
others  for  an  inn,  and  my  father's  old  friend  for  an  inn- 
keeper !  What  a  swaggering  puppy  must  he  take 
me  for !  What  a  silly  puppy  do  I  find  myself!  There, 
again,  may  I  be  hanged,  my  dear,  but  I  mistook  you 
for  the  bar-maid. 

Miss  Hardcaitle.  Dear  me !  dear  me !  I'm  sure 
there's  nothing  in  my  behaviour  to  put  me  upon  a  level 
with  one  of  that  stamp. 

Marlow.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But  I  was  in 
for  a  list  of  blunders,  and  could  not  help  making  you 
a  subscriber.  My  stupidity  saw  every  thing  the  wrong 
way.  I  mistook  your  assiduity  for  assurance,  and 
your  simplicity  for  allurement.  But  it's  over — this 
house  I  no  more  shew  my  face  in. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  done  nothing 
to  disoblige  you.  I'm  sure  1  should  be  sorry  to  affront 
any  gentleman  who  has  been  so  polite,  and  said  so 
many  civil  things  to  me.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry 
{pretending  to  cry)  if  he  left  the  family  upon  my  ac- 
count. I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  people  said  any 
thing  amiss,  since  I  have  no  fortune  but  my  character. 

Marlow.  (Aside)  By  Heaven !  she  weeps.  This  is 
the  first  mark  of  tenderness  I  ever  had  from  a  modest 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  227 

woman,  and  it  touches  me.  (To  her)  Excuse  me,  my 
lovely  girl ;  you  are  the  only  part  of  the  family  I 
leave  with  reluctance.  But,  to  be  plain  with  you,  the 
difference  of  our  birth,  fortune,  and  education,  make 
an  honourable  connexion  impossible  ;  and  I  can  never 
harbour  a  thought  of  seducing  simplicity  that  trusted 
in  my  honour,  of  bringing  ruin  upon  one  whose  only 
fault  was  being  too  lovely. 

Miss  Ilardcastle.  (Aside)  Generous  man  !  I  now 
begin  to  admire  him.  (7b  him)  But  I  am  sure  my 
family  is  as  good  as  Miss  Hardcastle's ;  and  though 
I'm  poor,  that's  no  great  misfortune  to  a  contented 
mind  ;  and,  until  this  moment,  I  never  thought  that  it 
was  bad  to  want  fortune. 

Marlow.  And  why  now,  my  pretty  simplicity  1 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  distance 
from  one,  that  if  I  had  a  thousand  pounds,  I  would 
give  it  all  to. 

Marlow.  (Aside)  This  simplicity  bewitches  me  so, 
that  if  1  stay,  I'm  undone.  I  must  make  one  bold 
effort,  and  leave  her.  (7b  her)  Your  pailiality  in  my 
favour,  my  dear,  touches  me  most  sensibly  ;  and  were 
I  to  live  for  myself  alone,  I  could  easily  fix  my  choice. 
But  I  owe  too  much  to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  too 
much  to  the  authority  of  a  father ;  so  that — I  can 
scarcely  speak  it — it  affects  me — Farewell.        [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  knew  half  his  merit  till 
now.  He  shall  not  go  if  I  have  power  or  art  to  detain 
him.  I'll  still  preserve  the  character  in  which  I 
stooped  to  conquer,  but  will  undeceive  my  papa,  who, 
perhaps,  may  laugh  him  out  of  his  resolution.     [Exit. 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville. 

Tony.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves  the  next 
time.  I  have  done  my  duty.  She  has  got  the  jewels 
again,  that's  a  sure  thing  ;  but  she  believes  it  was  all  a 
mistake  of  the  servants. 

M/ss  Neville.  But,  my  dear  cousin,  sure  you  won't 
forsake  us  in  this  distress  ]    If  she  in  the  least  suspects 


22S     .  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQTJEK. 

that  I  am  going  off,  I  shail  certainly  be  locked  up,  or 
sent  to  my  aunt  Pedigree's,  which  is  ten  times  worse. 
Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are  damned 
bad  things.  But  what  can  I  do  1  I  have  got  you  a 
pair  of  horses  that  will  fly  like  Whistle  Jacket;  and 
I'm  sure  you  can't  say  but  I  have  courted  you  nicely 
before  her  face.  Here  she  comes  ;  we  must  court  a 
bit  or  two  more,  for  fear  she  should  suspect  us. 

[They  retire,  and  seem  to  fondle. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcas:le. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  I  was  greatly  fluttered,  to 
be  sure,  but  my  son  tells  me  it  was  all  a  mistake  of 
the  servants.  I  shan't  be  easy,  however,  till  they  are 
fairly  married,  and  then  let  her  keep  her  own  fortune. 
But  what  do  I  see  1  fondling  together,  as  I'm  alive. 
I  never  saw  Tony  so  sprightly  before.  Ah  !  have  I 
caught  you,  my  pretty  doves  1  What,  billing,  ex- 
changing glances  and  broken  murmurs'!    Ah  ! 

Tony.  As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we  grumble  a  little 
now  and  then,  to  be  sure ;  but  there's  no  love  lost 
between  us. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony,  upon 
the  flame,  only  to  make  it  burn  brighter. 

Miss  Neville.  Cousin  Tony  promises  us  to  give  us 
more  of  his  company  at  home.  Indeed,  he  shan't 
leave  us  any  more.  It  won't  leave  us,  cousin  Tony, 
will  it? 

Tony.  Oh,  it's  a  pretty  creature.  No,  I'd  sooner 
leave  my  horse  in  a  pound,  than  leave  you  when  you 
smile  upon  one  so.  Your  laugh  makes  you  so  be- 
coming. 

Miss  Neville.  Agreeable  cousin!  Who  can  help 
admiring  that  natural  humour,  that  pleasant,  broad, 
red,  thoughtless,  {patting  his  cheek) — ah  !  it's  a  bold 
face  ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pretty  innocence  ! 

Tony.  I'm  sure  I  always  loved  cousin  Con's  haze! 
eyes,  and  her  pretty  long  fingeis,  that  she  twi-ts  this 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  229 

way  and  that  over  the  haspicholls,  like  a  parcel  of 
bobbins. 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  Ah  !  he  would  charm  the  bird 
from  the  tree.  I  was  never  so  happy  before.  My  boy 
takes  after  his  father,  poor  Mr.  Lumpkin,  exactly. 
The  jewels,  my  dear  Con,  shall  be  yours  incontinently. 
You  shall  have  them.  Isn't  he  a  sweet  boy,  my  dear  ? 
You  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  and  we'll  put  off  the 
rest  of  his  education,  like  Dr.  Drowsy's  sermons,  to  a 
fitter  opportunity. 

Enter  Diggory. 

Diggory  Where's  the  Squire  t  I  have  got  a  letter 
for  your  worship. 

Tony.  Give  it  to  my  mamma.  She  reads  all  my 
letters  first. 

Dlggory-  I  ''ad  orders  to  delner  it.  into  your  own 
hands. 

Tony.   Who  dots  it  come  from  7 

Diggory.  Your  worship  inun  ask  that  o'  the  letter 
itself. 

Tony.  I  could  wish  to  know  though.  (Turning the 
letter,  and  gaz  ng  on  it.) 

Miss  Neville.  (Aside)  Undone  !  undone  !  A  letter 
to  him  from  Hastings  :  I  know  the  hand.  If  my  aunt 
sees  it,  we  are  ruined  for  ever.  I'll  keep  her  employed 
a  little,  if  I  can.  (To  Mrs.  Hardcastle)  But  1  have 
not  told  you,  madam,  of  my  cousin's  smart  answer 
just  now  to  Mr.  Marlow.  We  so  laughed— You  must 
know,  madam — This  way  a  little,  for  he  must  not 
hear  us.    ((They  confer.) 

Tony.  (Still  gazing)  A  damned  cramp  piece  of 
penmanship,  as  ever  I  saw  in  my  life.  1  can  read 
your  print-hand  very  well ;  but  here  there  are  such 
handles,  and  shanks.,  and  dashes,  that  one  can  scarce 
tell  the  head  from  the  tail.  '  To  Anthony  Lumpkin, 
Esquire.'  It's  very  odd,  I  can  read  the  outside  of 
my  letters,  where  my  own  name  is,  well  enough.  But 
when   I   come  to  open  it,  it's  all buzz.     That's 


230  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

hard — very  hard  ;  for  the  inside  of  the  letter  is  always 
the  cream  of  the  correspondence. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Very  well,  very 
well.   And  so  my  son  was  too  hard  for  the  philosopher  f 

Miss  Neville.  Yes,  madam  ;  but  you  must  hear  the 
rest,  madam.  A  little  more  this  way,  or  he  may  hear 
us.     You'll  hear  how  he  puzzled  him  again. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  He  seems  strangely  puzzled  now 
himself,  methinks. 

Tony.  (Still  gazing)  A  damned  up-and-down  hand, 
as  if  it  was  disguised  in  liquor.  (Reading)  '  Dear 
sir,' — Ay,  that's  that.  Then  there's  an  M,  and  a  T, 
and  an  S,  but  whether  the  next  be  an  izzard  or  an  R, 
confound  me  I  cannot  tell ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  What's  that,  my  dear  ;  can  I  give 
you  any  assistance  1 

Miss  Neville.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it.  Nobody 
reads  a  cramp  hand  better  than  I.  (Twitching  the 
letter  from  him)  Do  you  know  who  it  is  from  ? 

Tony.  Can't  tell,  except  from  Dick  Ginger,  the 
feeder. 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  so  it  is :  (pretending  to  read) 
Dear  Squire,  hoping  that  you're  in  health,  as  I  am  at 
this  present.  The  gentlemen  of  the  Shake  Bag  Club 
has  cut  the  gentlemen  of  the  Goose  Green  quite  out  of 

feather.    The  odds um odd  battle — um — long 

righting — um — here,  here,  it's  all  about  cocks  and 
fighting  ;  it's  of  no  consequence — here,  put  it  up,  put 
it  up.    (Thrusting  the  crumpled  letter  upon  him.) 

Tony.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it's  of  all  the  conse- 
quence in  the  world.  I  would  not  lose  the  rest  of  it 
for  a  guinea.  Here,  mother,  do  you  make  it  out.  Of 
no  consequence  !     [Giving  Mrs.  Hardcastle  the  letter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  How's  this !  (Reads)  '  Dear  Squire, 
I'm  now  waiting  for  Miss  Neville,  with  a  postchaise 
and  pair,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  but  I  find  my 
horses  yet  unable  to  perform  the  journey.  I  expect 
you'll  assist  us  with  a  pair  of  fresh  horses,  as  you  pro- 
mised. Despatch  is  necessary,  as  the  hag' — ay,  the 
hag — *  your  mother,  will  otherwise  suspect  us.    Yours, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  231 

Hastings.'  Grant  me  patience  :  1  shall  run  distracted  ! 
My  rage  chokes  me  ! 

Miss  Neville.  1  hope,  madam,  you'll  suspend  your 
resentment  for  a  few  moments,  and  not  impute  to  me 
aay  imptrtineace,  or  sinister  design,  that  belongs  to 
another. 

Mrs.  Hardcnstle.  (Curtseying  very  low)  Fine  spoken 
madam,  you  are  most  miraculously  polite  and  en- 
gaging, and  quite  the  very  pink  of  courtesy  and  cir- 
cumspection, madam.  (Changing  her  tone)  And  you, 
you  great  ill-fashioned  oaf,  with  scarce  sense  enough 
to  keep  your  mouth  shut, — were  you,  too,  joined 
against  me  ?  But  I'll  defeat  all  your  plots  in  a  mo- 
ment. As  for  you,  madam,  since  you  have  got  a  pair 
of  fresh  horses  ready,  it  v/ould  be  cruel  to  disappoint 
them.  So,  if  you  please,  instead  of  running  away 
with  your  spark,  prepare,  this  very  moment,  to  run  off 
with  me.  Your  old  aunt  Pedigree  will  keep  you 
secure,  I'll  warrant  me.  You  too,  sir,  may  mount 
your  horse,  and  guard  us  upon  the  way. — Here, 
Thomas,  Roger,  Diggory  ! — I'll  shew  you,  that  I  wish 
you  better  than  you  do  yourselves.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  So,  now  I'm  completely  ruined. 

Tony.  Ay,  that's  a  sure  thing. 

Miss  NevU-le.  What  better  could  be  expected,  from 
being  connected  with  such  a  stupid  fool,  and  after  all 
the  nods  and  signs  I  made  him! 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your  own  clever- 
ness, and  not  my  stupidity,  that  did  your  business! 
You  were  so  nice  and  so  busy  with  your  Shake  Hags 
and  Goose  Greens,  that  I  thought  you  could  never 
be  making  believe. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Huntings.  So,  sir,  I  find  by  my  servant,  that  you 
have  shewn  my  letter,  and  betrayed  us.  Was  this 
well  done,  young  gentleman? 

Tony.  Here's  another.  Ask  miss,  there,  who  be- 
trayed you.     Ecod  !  it  was  her  doing,  not  mine. 


232        '      SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  So,  I  have  been  finely  used  liere  among 
you.  Rendered  contemptible,  driven  into  ill  man- 
ners, despised,  insulted,  laughed  at. 

Tony.  Here's  another.  We  shall  have  all  Bedlam 
broke  loose  presently. 

Miss  Neville.  And  there,  sir,  13  the  gentleman  to 
whom  we  all  owe  every  obligation. 

Marlow.  What  can  I  say  to  him?  a  mere  boy,  an 
idiot,  whose  ignorance  and  age  are  a  protection. 

Hastings.  A  poor  contemptible  booby,  that  would 
but  disgrace  correction. 

Miss  Neville.  Yet  with  cunning  and  malice  enough 
to  make  himself  merry  with  all  our  embarrassments. 

Hastings.  An  insensible  cub. 

Marlow.  Replete  with  tricks  and  mischief. 

Tony.  Raw !  damme,  but  I'll  fight  you  both,  one 
after  the  other with  baskets. 

Marlow.  As  for  him,  he's  below  resentment.  But 
your  conduct,  Mr.  Hastings,  requires  an  explanation. 
You  knew  of  my  mistakes,  yet  would  not  undeceive 
me. 

Hastings.  Tortured  as  I  am  with  my  own  disap- 
pointments, is  this  a  time  for  explanations  ?  It  is  not 
friendly,  Mr.  Marlow. 

Marlow.  But,  sir 

JlJiss  Neville.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept  on  your 
mistake,  till  it  was  too  late  to  undeceive  you.  Be 
pacified. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  My  mistress  desires  you'll  get  ready  im- 
mediately, madam.  The  horses  are  putting-to.  Your 
hat  and  things  are  in  the  next  room.  We  are  to  go 
thirty  miles  before  morning.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  well,  I'll  come  presently. 

Marlow.  (To  Hastings.)  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  to 
assist  in  rendering  me  ridiculous? — To  hang  me  out 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  233 

for  the  scorn  of  all  my  acquaintance  1  Depend  upon 
it,  sir,  I  shall  expect  an  explanation. 

Hastings.  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  if  you're  upon  that 
subject,  to  deliver  what  I  intrusted  to  yourself,  to  the 
care  of  another,  sir  1 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Hastings  !  Mr.  Mario w  !  Why 
will  you  increase  my  distress  by  this  groundless  dis- 
pute?    I  implore — I  entreat  you 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Your  cloak,  madam.  My  mistress  is 
impatient.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Neville.  I  come.  Pray,  be  pacified.  If  1 
leave  you  thus,  I  shall  die  with  apprehension. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Your  fan,  muff,  and  gloves,  madam.  The. 
horses  are  waiting.  [Exit  Servant, 

Miss  Neville.  Oh,  Mr.  Marlow,  if  you  knew  what 
a  scene  of  constraint  and  ill-nature  lies  before  me,  I 
am  sure  it  would  convert  your  resentment  into  pity  ! 

Marlow.  I'm  so  distracted  with  a  variety  of  pas- 
sions, that  I  don't  know  what  I  do.  Forgive  me, 
madam.  George,  forgive  me.  You  know  my  hasty 
temper,  and  should  not  exasperate  it. 

Hastings.  The  torture  of  my  situation  is  my  only 
excuse. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if  you  have 
that  esteem  for  me  that  I  think — that  1  am  sure  you 
have,  your  constancy  for  three  years  will  but  increase 
the  happiness  of  our  future  connexion.     If 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Within.)  Miss  Neville  !  Con- 
stance, why,  Constance,  1  say! 

Miss  Neiiltc.  I'm  coming!  Well,  constancy  ;  re- 
member, constancy  is  the  word.  [Exit. 

Hastings.  My  heart!  how  can  I  support  this  1  To 
be    o  near  happiness,  and  such  happiness  ! 

Marlow.  (  i'o  7'oni/.N  You  see  now,  young  gentle- 


234  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

man,  the  effects  of  your  folly.  What  might  be  amuse- 
ment to  you,  is  here  disappointment,  and  even  distress. 
Tony.  (From  a  reverie.)  Ecod,  I  have  hit  it:  it's 
here  !  Your  hands.  Yours,  and  yours,  my  poor  Sulky. 
My  boots  there,  ho  ! — Meet  me,  two  hours  hence,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  garden  ;  and  if  you  don't  find  Tony 
Lumpkin  a  more  good-natured  fellow  than  you  thought 
'for,  I'll  give  you  leave  to  take  my  best  horse,  and  Bet 
Bouncer  into  the  bargain.  Come  along.  My  boots, 
ho !  [Exeunt. 


ACT  FIFTH. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Servant. 

Hastings.  You  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Neville 
drive  off,  you  say  ? 

Servant..^  Yes,  your  honour.  They  went  off  in  a 
post-coach,  and  the  young  squire  went  on  horseback. 
They're  thirty  miles  off  by  this  time. 

Hastings.  Then  all  my  hopes  are  over ! 

Servant.  Yes,  sir.  Old  Sir  Charles  is  arrived.  He 
and  the  old  gentleman  of  the  house  have  been  laugh- 
ing at  Mr.  Marlow's  mistake  this  half  hour.  They 
are  coming  this  way.  [Exit. 

Hastings.  Then  I  must  not  be  seen.  So  now  to 
my  fruitless  appointment  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
This  is  about  the  time.  [  Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  The  peremptory  tone  ia 
which  he  sent  forth  his  sublime  commands  ! 

Sir  Charles.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I  suppose 
he  treated  all  your  advances. 

Hardciztlz.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  something 
in  me  above  a  eommon  innkeeper,  too. 

Sir  Charles.  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook  you  for  an 
uncommon  innkeeper  ;  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  235 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I'm  in  too  good  spirits  to  think 
of  any  thing  but  joy.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  this 
union  of  our  families  will  make  our  personal  friend- 
ships hereditary,  and  though  my  daughter's  fortune  is 
but  small 

Sir  Charles.  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of  fortune 
to  me?  My  son  is  possessed  of  more  than  a  compe- 
tence already,  and  can  want  nothing  but  a  good  and 
virtuous  girl  to  share  his  happiness  and  increase  it. 
If  they  like  each  other,  as  you  say  they  do 

HardcaMe.  If,  man  !  I  tell  you  they  do  like  each 
other.     My  daughteT  as  good  as  told  me  so. 

Sir  Charles.  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter  themselves, 
you  know. 

Hardcastle.  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the  warmest 
manner  myself;  and  here  he  comes  to  put  you  out  of 
your  ifs,  I  warrant  him. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Mar  low.  I  come,  sir,  once  more,  to  ask-pardon  for 
my  strange  conduct.  I  can  scarce  reflect  on  my  in- 
solence without  confusion. 

Hardcastle.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle.  You  take  it  too 
gravely.  An  hour  or  two's  laughing  with  my  daugh- 
ter, will  set  all  to  lights  again.  She'll  never  like 
you  the  worse  for  it. 

Marlow.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of  her  ap- 
probation. 

Hardcastle.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr. 
.Mli  low;  if  1  am  not  deceived,  you  have  something 
more  than  approbation  thereabouts.     You  take  me ! 

Marlow.    Really,  sir,  I've  not  that  happiness. 

Hardcastle.  Come,  boy,  I'm  an  old  fellow,  and 
know  what's  what  as  well  as  you  that  are  younger. 
I  know  what  has  past  between  you;  but  mum. 

Marlow.  Sure,  sir,  nothing  has  past  between  us  but 
the  most  profound  respect  on  my  side,  and  the  most 
distant  reserve  on  hers.  You  don't  think,  sir,  that 
my  impudence  has  been  past  upon  all  the  rest  of  the 
family  ! 


23'j  SHE  STOOL'S  TO  CONQUER. 

Hardcastle.  Impudence  !  No,  I  don't  say  that — 
not  quite  impudence — though  girls  like  to  be  played 
with,  and  rumpled  a  little  too,  sometimes.  But  she 
has  told  no  tales,  I  assure  you. 

Marlow.  1  never  gave  her  the  slightest  cause. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  well,  I  like  modesty  in  its  place 
well  enough ;  but  this  is  over-acting,  young  gentle- 
man. You  may  be  open.  Your  father  and  I  will 
like  you  the  better  for  it. 

Marlow.  May  I  die,  sir,  if  I  ever ■ 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  she  don't  dislike  you  j  and 
as  I'm  sure  you  like  her 

Marlow.  Dear  sir,  I  protest,  sir 

Hardcastle.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be 
joined  as  fast  as  the  parson  can  tie  you. 

Marlow.  But  hear  me,  sir 

Hardcastle.  Your  father  approves  the  match,  I  ad- 
mire  it ;  every  moment's  delay  will  be  doing  mischief, 
so 

Marlow.  B'll  why  don't  you  hear  me  1  By  all  that's 
just  and  true,  I  never  gave  Miss  Hardcastle  the 
slightest  mark  of  my  attachment,  or  even  the  most 
distant  hint  to  suspect  me  of  affection.  We  had  but 
one  interview,  and  that  was  formal,  modest,  and 
uninteresting. 

Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  This  fellow's  formal,  modest 
impudence  is  beyond  bearing. 

Sir  Charles.  And  you  never  grasped  her  hand,  or 
made  any  protestations  1 

Marlow.  As  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came  down 
in  obedience  to  your  commands  ;  I  saw  the  lady  with- 
out emotion,  and  parted  without  reluctance.  I  hope 
you'll  exact  no  farther  proofs  of  my  duty,  nor  prevent 
me  from  leaving  a  house  in  which  I  suffer  so  many 
mortifications.  [Exit. 

Sir  Charles.  I'm  astonished  at  the  air  of  sincerity 
with  which  he  parted. 

Hardcastle.  And  I'm  astonished  at  the  deliberate 
intrepidity  of  his  assurance. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  237 

Sir  Charles.  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and  honour  upon 
his  truth. 

Hardcastle.  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I  would 
stake  rny  happiness  upon  her  veracity. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer  us 
sincerely,  and  without  reserve  :  has  Mr.  Marlow  made 
you  any  professions  of  love  and  affection  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  The  question  is  very  abrupt,  sir ! 
But  since  you  require  unreserved  sincerity — I  think 
he  has. 

Hardcastle.  (To  Sir  Charles)  You  see. 
Sir  Charles.  And  pray,  madam,  have  you  and  my 
son  had  more  than  one  interview  1 
Mas  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  several. 
Hardcastle.  (To  Sir  Charles)  You  see. 
SirCharles.  But  did  lie  profess  any  attachment  ? 
Miss  Hardcastle.  A  lasting  one. 
Sir  Charles.  Did  he  talk  of  love  1 
Miss  Hardcastle.  Much,  sir. 
Str  Charles.  Amazing  !     And  all  this  formally  » 
Miss  Hardcastle.  Formally. 

Hardcastle.  Isow,  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are  sa> 
tisSed. 

Sir  Charles.  And  how  did  he  beha»e,  madam  ? 
Miss  Hardcastle.  As  most  professed  admirers  do . 
said  some  civil  things  of  my  face  ;  talked  much  of  his 
want  of  merit,  and  the  greatness  of  mine  ;  mentioned 
his  heart,  gave  a  short  tragedy  speech,  and  ended  with 
pretended  rapture. 

Sir  Charles.  Now  I'm  perfectly  convinced,  indeed. 
I  know  his  conversation  among  women  to  be  modest 
and  submissive.  This  forward,  canting,  ranting  man- 
ner by  no  means  describes  him,  and,  1  am  confident, 
he  never  sat  lor  the  picture. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  what,  sir,  if  I  should  con- 
vince  you  to  your  {.u-v  of  my  sincerity  ?  If  you  and 
my  papa,  in  about  half  an  hour,  will  place  yourselves 


238  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

behind  that  screen,  you  shall  hear  him  declare  hi? 
passion  to  me  in  person. 

Sir  Chartes.  Agreed.  And  if  I  find  him  what  you 
describe,  all  my  happiness  in  him  must  have  an  end. 

[Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  you  don't  find  him  what  I 
describe,  1  fear  my  happiness  must  never  have  a 
beginning. 

SCENE  CHANGES  TO  THE  BACK  OF  THE  GARDEN. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  What  an  idiot  am  I  to  wait  here  for  a 
fellow  who  probably  takes  a  delight  in  mortifying  me. 
He  never  intended  to  be  punctual,  and  I'll  wait  no 
longer.  What  do  I  see  ?  It  is  he  !  and  perhaps 
with  news  of  my  Constance. 

Enter  Tony,  booted  a7id  spattered. 

Hastings.  My  honest  Squire  !  I  now  find  you  a  man 
of  your  word.     This  looks  like  friendship. 

Tony.  Ay,  I'm  your  friend,  and  the  best  friend  you 
have  in  the  world,  if  you  knew  but  all.  This  riding 
by  night,  by  the  by,  is  cursedly  tiresome.  It  has  shook 
me  worse  than  the  basket  of  a  stage-coach. 

Hasting*.  But  how  ?  where  did  you  leave  your 
fellow-travellers'?  Are  they  in  safety?  Are  they 
housed  1 

Tony.  Five-and-twenty  miles  in  two  hours  and  a 
half,  is  no  such  bad  driving.  The  poor  beasts  have 
smoked  for  it :  rabbit  me !  but  I'd  rather  ride  forty 
miles  after  a  fox,  than  ten  with  such  varmint. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  where  have  you  left  the  ladies? 
I  die  with  impatience. 

Tony.  Left  them  !  Why,  where  should  I  leave 
them  but  where  I  found  them? 

Hastings.  This  is  a  riddle. 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this,  then.      What's  that    goes 


SHE  STOOPs  I   :  k  •■  W<  Kll.  2H9 

round   the  house,    and  round  the  house,    and  never 
touches  the  house? 

Hastings.   I'm  still  astray. 

Tony.   Why,  that's  it,  num.,  I  have  led  them  astray 
By  jingo,   there's  not  a   pond  or  a  slough  w'thin  nvc 
miles  of  the  place  but  they  can  tell  the  taste  of. 

Hastings.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I  understand :  you  took 
them  in  a  round,  while  they  supposed  themselves 
going  forward,  and  so  you  have  at  last  brought  them 
home  again. 

Tony.  You  shall  hear.  I  first  took  them  down 
Feather-bed  Lane,  where  we  stuck  fast  in  the  mud. 
I  then  rattled  them  crack  over  the  stones  of  Up-and- 
down  Hill.  I  then  introduced  them  to  the  gibbet  on 
Heavy-tree  Heath  ;  and  from  that,  with  a  circum- 
bendibus, I  fairly  lodged  them  in  the  horse-pond  at 
the  bottom  of  the  garden. 

Hastings.   Siut  no  accident,  I  hope? 

Tony.  No,  no  ;  only  mother  is  confoundedly 
frightened.  She  thinks  herself  forty  miles  off.  She's 
sick  of  the  journey  ;  and  the  cattle  can  scarce  crawl. 
So,  if  your  own  horses  be  ready,  you  may  whip  off 
with  cousin,  and  I'll  be  bound  that  no  soul  here  can 
budge  a  foot  to  follow  you. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be  grateful  ? 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it's  dear  friend;  noble  Squire! 
Just  now,  it  was  all  idiot,  cub,  and  run  me  through 
the  guts.  Damn  your  way  of  fighting,  I  say.  After 
we  take  a  knock  in  this  part  of  the  country,  we  kiss 
and  be  friends.  Hut  if  you  had  run  me  through  the 
guts,  then  I  should  be  dead,  and  you  might  go  kiss 
the  hangman. 

Hastings.  The  rebuke  is  just.  But  I  must  hasten 
to  relieve  Miss  Neville  :  if  you  keep  the  old  lady  em- 
ployed, 1  promise  to  take  care  of  the  young  one. 

[Exit  Hastings. 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Here  she  comes;  vanish! 
She's  got  from  the  pond,  and  draggled  up  to  the  waist 
like  a  mermaid. 


240  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  Tony,  I'm  killed  Shook . 
Battered  to  death  !  I  shall  never  survive  it.  That 
last  jolt,  that  laid  us  against  the  quickset-hedge,  his 
done  my  business. 

Tony.  Alack,  mamma !  it  was  all  your  own  fault. 
You  would  be  for  running  away  by  night,  without 
knowing  one  inch  of  the  way. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again. 
I  never  met  so  many  accidents  in  so  short  a  journey. 
Drenched  in  the  mud,  overturned  in  a  ditch,  stuck 
fast  in  a  slough,  jolted  to  a  jelly,  and  at  last  to  lose 
our  way  !   Whereabouts  do  you  think  we  are,  Tony  1 

Tony.  By  my  guess,  we  should  be  upon  Crack- 
skull  Common,  about  forty  miles  from  home. 

Mrs.  Hardcast-ie.  O  lud !  O  lud !  The  most  no- 
torious spot  in  all  the  country.  We  only  want  a 
robbery  to  make  a  complete  night  on't. 

Tony.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma ;  don't  be  afraid. 
Two  of  the  five  that  kept  here  are  hanged,  and  the 
other  three  may  not  find  us.  Don't  be  afraid. — Is 
that  a  man  that's  galloping  behind  us  No,  it's  only 
a  tree. — Don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcaitle.  The  fright  will  certainly  kill  me. 

Tony.  Do  you  see  any  thing  like  a  black  hat 
moving  behind  the  thicket  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  death ! 

Tony.  No :  it's  only  a  cow.  Don't  be  afraid, 
mamma  ;  don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcaitle.  As  I'm  alive,  Tony,  I  see  a  man 
coming  towards  us.  Ah  !  I  am  sure  on't.  If  he  per- 
ceives us,  we  are  undone. 

Tcny.  (Aside)  Father-in-law,  by  all  that's  un- 
lucky, come  to  take  one  of  his  night  walks.  (To  her) 
Ah  !  it's  a  highwayman,  with  pistols  as  long  as  my 
arm.     A  damn'd  ill-looking  fellow  ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Good  Heaven  defend  us!  He 
approaches. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  241 

Tony.  Do  you  hide  yourself  in  that  thicket,  and 
leave  me  to  manage  him.  If  there  be  any  danger, 
I'll  cough  and  cry  hem.  When  I  cough,  be  sure  to 
keep  close.  [Mrs.  Hardcastle  hides  behind  a 

tree  in  the  back  scene. 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  I'm  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of 
people  in  want  of  help.  Oh,  Tony,  is  that  you  1  I 
did  not  expect  you  so  soon  back.  Are  your  mother 
and  her  charge  in  safety? 

Tony.  Very  safe,  sir,  at  my  aunt  Pedigree's.    Hem. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (From  behind)  Ah,  death  !  I  find 
there's  danger. 

Hardcastle.  Forty  miles  in  three  hours  ;  sure  ihat's 
too  much,  my  youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  willing  minds  make  short 
journeys,  as  they  say.     Hem. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (From  behind)  Sure,  he'll  do  the 
dear  bo"  no  harm  ! 

Hardcastle.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here  ;  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  from  whence  it  came. 

Tony.  It  was  I,  sir,  talking  to  myself,  sir.  I  was 
saying  that  forty  miles  in  four  hours  was  very  good 
going.  Hem.  As  to  be  sure  it  was.  Hem.  I  have 
got  a  sort  of  cold  by  being  out  in  the  air.  We'll  go 
in,  if  you  please.     Hem. 

Hardcastle.  But  if  you  talked  to  yourself,  yon  did 
not  answer  yourself.  I'm  certain  I  heard  two  voices, 
and  am  resolved  (raising  his  voice)  to  find  the  other 
out. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  ( From  behind)  Oh!  he's  coming 
to  find  me  out.     Oh  ! 

Tony.  What  need  you  go,  sir,  if  I  tell  you  ?  Hem. 
I'll  lay  down  my  life  for  the  truth — hem — I'll  tell 
you  all,  sir.  [Detaining  him. 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  be  detained.  I 
insist  on  seeing.  It's  in  vain  to  expect  I'll  believe 
you. 

M 


242  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Running  forward  from  behind) 

0  lud!  he'll  murder  my  poor  boy,  my  darling!  Here, 
good  gentleman,  whet  your  rage  upon  me.  Take  my 
money,  my  life,  but  spare  that  young  gentleman ; 
spare  my  child,  if  you  have  any  mercy. 

Hardcastle.  My  wife,  as  I'm  a  Christian.  From 
whence  can  she  have  come?  or  what  does  she  mean? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Kneeling)  Take  compassion  on 
us,  good  Mr.  Highwayman.  Take  our  money,  our 
watches,  all  we  have,  but  spare  our  lives.  We  will 
never  bring  you  to  justice ;  indeed  we  won't,  good 
Mr.  Highwayman. 

Hardcastle.  I  believe  the  woman's  out  of  her  senses. 
What,  Dorothy,  don't  you  know  me  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I'm  alive  .' 
My  ffiars  blinded  me.  But  who,  my  dear,  could 
have  expected  to  meet  you  here,  in  this  frightful 
place,  so  far  from  home  ?  What  has  brought  you  to 
follow  us? 

Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  have  not  lost  your 
wits?  So  far  from  home,  when  you  are  within  forty 
yards  of  your  own  door!  (To  him)  This  is  one  of 
your  old  tricks,  you  graceless  rogue,  you.  (To  her) 
Don't  you  know  the  gate  and  the  mulberry-tree  ?  and 
don't  you  remember  the  horse-pond,  my  dear  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the  horse- 
pond  as  long  as  I  live ;  I  have  caught  my  death  in  it. 
(To  Tony)    And   is  it  to  you,  you  graceless  variet, 

1  owe  all  this  ?  I'll  teach  you  to  abuse  your  mother— 
I  will. 

Tony.  Ecod,  mother,  all  the  parish  says  you  have 
spoiled  me,  and  so  you  may  take  the  fruits  on't. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I'll  spoil  you,  I  will. 

[Follows  him  off  the  stage. 

Hardcastle.  There's  morality,  however,  in  his  re- 
ply. [E«i. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Constance,  why  will  you  de- 
liberate thus  ?     If  we  delay  a  moment,  all  is  lost  for 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  243 

ever.     Pluck  up  a  little  resolution,  and  we  shall  soon 
be  out  of  the  reach  of  her  malignity. 

Bliss  Neville.  I  find  it  impossible.  My  spirits  are 
so  sunk  with  the  agitations  I  have  suffered,  that  I  am 
unable  to  face  any  new  danger.  Two  or  three  years' 
patience  will  at  last  crown  us  with  happiness. 

Hastings.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse  than  in- 
constancy. Let  us  fly,  my  charmer!  Let  us  date 
our  happiness  from  this  very  moment.  Perish  for- 
tune !  Love  and  content  will  increase  what  we  pos- 
sess beyond  a  monarch's  revenue.     Let  me  prevail  ! 

Miss  Neville.  No,  Mr.  Hastings,  no.  Prudence 
once  more  comes  to  my  relief,  and  I  will  obey  its  dic- 
tates. In  the  moment  of  passion,  fortune  may  be 
despised,  but  it  ever  produces  a  lasting  repentance.  I'm 
resolved  to  aaply  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's  compassion  and 
justice  for  redress. 

Hastings.  But  though  he  had  the  will,  lie  has  not 
the  power,  to  relieve  you. 

Miss  Neville.  But  he  has  influence,  and  upon  that 
.  I  am  resolved  to  rely. 

Hastings.  I  have  no  hopes.  But,  since  you  per- 
sist, I  must  reluctantly  obey  you.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  CHANGES. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Marlow  and  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Sir  Charles.  What  a  situation  am  I  in  !  If  what 
you  say  appears,  I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.  If 
what  he  says  be  true,  1  shall  then  lose  one  that,  of  all 
others,  I  most  wished  for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  1  am  proud  of  your  approbation  • 
and  to  shew  I  merit  it,  if  you  place  yourselves  as  I 
directed,  you  shall  hear  his  explicit  declaration.  But 
he  comes. 

Sir  Charles.  I'll  to  your  father,  and  keep  him  to 
the  appointment.  [i:xit  Sir  Charles. 

Enter  Marlow. 
Marlow.  Though  prepared  for  setting  out,  I  come 


- 1 


244  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

once  more  to  take  leave  ;  nor  did  1,  till  this  moment, 
know  the  pain  I  feel  in  the  separation. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (In  her  own  natural  manner.)  I 
believe  these  sufferings  cannot  be  very  great,  sir, 
which  you  can  so  easily  remove.  A  day  or  two 
longer,  perhaps,  might  lessen  your  uneasiness,  by 
shewing  the  little  value  of  what  you  now  think  pro- 
per to  regret. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  This  girl  every  moment  im- 
proves upon  me.  (To  her)  It  must  not  be,  madam; 
I  have  already  trifled  too  long  with  my  heart.  My 
very  pride  begins  to  submit  to  my  passion.  The  dis- 
parity of  education  and  fortune,  the  anger  of  a  pa- 
rent, and  the  contempt  of  my  equals,  begiu  to  lose 
their  weight ;  and  nothing  can  restore  me  to  myself 
but  this  painful  effort  of  resolution.        9 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  go,  sir ;  I'll  urge  nothing 
more  to  detain  you.  Though  my  family  be  as  good 
as  hers  you  came  down  to  visit,  and  my  education,  I 
hope,  not  inferior,  what  are  these  advantages  without 
equal  affluence?  I  must  remain  contented  with  the 
slight  approbation  of  imputed  merit  ;  I  must  have 
only  the  mockery  of  your  addresses,  while  all  your 
serious  aims  are  fixed  on  fortune. 

Enter  Hardcastle  and  Sir  Charles  Marlow,  from  behind. 

Sir  Charles.  Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  ay  ;  make  no  noise.  I'll  engage 
my  Kate  covers  him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Marlow.  By  Heavens !  madam,  fortune  was  ever 
my  smallest  consideration.  Your  beauty  at  first 
caught  my  eye  ;  for  who  could  see  that  without  emo- 
tion ?  But  every  moment  that  I  converse  with  you, 
steals  in  some  new  grace,  heightens  the  picture,  and 
gives  it  stronger  expression.  What  at  first  seemed 
rustic  plainness,  now  appears  refined  simplicity.  What 
seemed  forward  assurance,  now  strikes  me  as  the  re- 
sult of  courageous  innocence  and  conscious  virtue. 

Sir  Charles.  What  can  it  mean  ?     He  amazes  me  ' 

Hardcastle.  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.     Hush  ! 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  245 

Mar  low.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  madam, 
and  I  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  my  father's  dis- 
cernment, when  lie  sees  you,  to  doubt  his  approbation. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  1  will  not, 
cannot  detain  you.  Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  a 
connexion  in  which  there  is  the  smallest  room  for 
repentance?  Do  you  think  I  would  take  the  mean 
advantage  of  a  transient  passion  to  load  you  with  con- 
fusion ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  relish  that  hap- 
piness which  was  acquired  by  lessening  yours? 

Marlow.  !Sy  all  that's  good,  I  can  have  no  happi- 
ness but  what's  in  your  power  to  grant  me  !  Nor 
shall  L  ever  feel  repentance  but  in  not  having  seen 
your  merits  before.  I  will  stay  even  contrary  to  your 
wishes ;  and  though  you  should  persist  to  shun  me,  I 
will  make  my  respectful  assiduities  atone  for  the  levity 
of  my  past  conduct. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you'll  desist. 
As  our  acquaintance  began,  so  let  it  end,  in  indiffer- 
once.  I  might  have  eiven  an  hour  or  two  to  levity  ; 
but  seriously,  Mr.  Marlow,  do  you  think  I  could  ever 
submit  to  a  connexion  where.  I  must  appear  merce- 
nary, and  you  imprudent?  Do  you  think  1  could  ever 
catch  at  the  confident  addresses  of  a  secure  admirer? 

Marlow.  (Kneeling.)  Does  this  look  like  security? 
Does  this  look  like  confidence?  No,  madam,  every 
moment  that  shews  me  your  merit,  only  serves  to  in- 
crease my  diffidence   and  confusion.     Here   let  me 

continue 

.  Sir  Charles.  I  can  hold  it  no  longer.  Charles, 
Cha'les,  how  hast  thou  deceived  me  !  Is  this  your 
indifference,  your  uninteresting  conversation  ? 

Hardcastle.  Your  cold  contempt ;  your  formal  in- 
terview  !      What  have  you  to  say  now  ? 

Marlow.  That  I'm  all  amazement !  What  can  it 
mean  ? 

Hardcastle.  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  unsay 
things  at  pleasure  :  that  you  can  address  a  lady  in 
private,  and  deny  it  in  public  :  that  you  have  one 
story  for  us,  and  another  for  my  daughter. 


210  sim  srooi-s  r;j  co.>qubr. 

Mallow.  Daughter ! — This  lady  your  daughter? 

Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  my  only  daughter — my  Kate  ; 
whose  else  should  she  be  ? 

Marlow.   Oh,  the  devil ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  that  very  identical  tall 
squinting  lady  you  were  pleased  to  take  me  for 
(curtseying  ;)  she  that  you  addressed  as  the  mild,  mo- 
dest, sentimental  man  of  gravity,  and  the  bold,  for- 
ward, agreeable  Rattle  of  the  ladies'  club.  Ha !  ha  ! 
ha! 

Marlow.  Zounds,  there's  no  bearing  this ;  it's  worse 
than  death ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  In  which  of  your  characters,  sir, 
will  you  give  us  leave  to  address  you  ?  As  the  falter- 
ing gentleman,  with  looks  on  the  ground,  that  speaks 
just  to  be  heard,  and  hates  hypocrisy ;  or  the  loud 
confident  creature,  that  keeps  it  up  with  Mrs.  Man- 
trap, and  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  till  three  in.  the 
morning! — Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Marlow.  Oh,  curse  on  my  noisy  head  !  I  never  at- 
tempted to  be  impudent  yet  that  I  was  not  taken 
down  !     I  must  be  gone. 

Hardcastle.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you  shall 
not.  I  see  it.  was  all  a  mistake,  and  I  am  rejoiced 
to  find  it.  You  shall  not  stir,  I  tell  you.  I  know 
she'll  forgive  you.  Won't  you  forgive  him,  Kate  ? 
We'll  all  forgive  you.     Take  courage,  man. 

[They  retire,  she  tormenting  him,  to  the  back  scene. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Tony, 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  So,  so,  they're  gone  off.  Let  them 
go,  I  care  not. 

Hardcastle.  Who  gone? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gen- 
tleman, Mr.  Hastings,  from  town.  He  who  came 
down  with  our  modest  visitor  here. 

■Sir  Charles.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hastings? 
As  worthy  a  fellow  as  lives,  and  the  girl  could  not 
have  made  a  more  prudent  choice. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  247 

Hardcastle.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I'm 
proud  of  the  connexion. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away  the 
lady,  he  has  not  taken  her  fortune :  that  remains  in 
this  family  to  console  us  for  her  loss.  ^». 

Hardcaitle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so 
mercenary  1 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  that's  my  affair,  not  yours. 

Hardcastle.  But  you  know  if  your  son,  when  of 
age,  refuses  to  marry  his  cousin,  her  whole  fortune  is 
then  at  her  own  disposal. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  but  he's  not  of  age,  and  she 
has  not  thought  proper  to  wait  for  his  refusal. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville, 

Mrs.  Hardcaitle.  (Aside.)  What,  returned  so  soon! 
I  begin  not  to  like  it. 

Hastings.  (To  Hardcastle.)  For  my  late  attempt  to 
fly  off  witti  your  niece,  let  my  present  confusion  be 
my  punishment.  We  are  now  come  back,  to  appeal 
from  your  justice  to  your  humanity.  By  her  father's 
consent  1  first  paid  her  my  addresses,  and  our  pas- 
sions were  first  founded  in  duty. 

Miss  Neville.  Since  his  death,  I  have  been  obliged 
to  stoop  to  dissimulation  to  avoid  oppression.  In  an 
hour  of  levity,  I  was  ready  even  to  give  up  my  for- 
tune to  secure  my  choice  :  But  I  am  now  recovered 
from  the  delusion,  and  hope,  from  your  tenderness, 
what  is  denied  me  from  a  nearer  connexion. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pshaw,  pshaw  ;  this  is  all  but  the 
whining  end  of  a  modern  novel. 

Hardcastle.  Be  it  what  it  will,  I'm  glad  they're 
come  back  to  reclaim  their  due.  Come  hither,  Tony, 
boy.  Do  you  refuse  this  iady's  hand,  whom  I  novr 
offer  you  1 

Tony.  What  signifies  my  refusing?  You  know  I 
can't  refuse  her  till  I'm  of  age,  father. 

Hardcastle.  While  I  thought  concealing  your  age, 
boy,  was  likely  to   conduce  to  your  improvement,  I 


ft 


2-tS  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

concurred  with  your  mother's  desire  to  keep  it  secret. 
But  since  I  find  she  turns  it  to  a  wrong  use,  I  must 
now  declare  you  have  been  of  age  these  three  months, 

Tony.  Of  age  !  Am  I  of  age,  father  t 

Hardcastle.  Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you'll  see  the  first  use  I'll  make  of  my 
liberty.  (Taking  Miss  Neville's  hand)  Witness  all 
men  by  these  presents,  that  I,  Anthony  Lumpkin, 
esquire,  of  blank  place,  refuse  you,  Constantia  Ne- 
ville, spinster,  of  no  place  af  all,  for  my  true  and  law- 
ful wife.  So  Constance  Neville  may  marry  whom 
she  pleases,  and  Tony  Lumpkin  is  his  own  man  again. 

Sir  Charles.  O  brave  Squire  ! 

Hustings.  My  worthy  friend  ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  undutiful  offspring  ! 

Mar  low.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you  joy  sin- 
cerely !  And,  could  1  prevail  upon  my  little  tyrant 
here  to  be  lessaibitrary,  1  should  be  the  happiest  man 
alive,  if  you  would  return  me  the  favour. 

Hastings.  (To  Miss  Haidcastle.)  Come,  madam, 
you  are  now  driven  to  the  very  last  scene  of  all  >our 
contrivances.  I  know  you  like  him,  I'm  sure  he  loves 
you,  and  you  must  and  shall  have  him. 

Hardcastle.  (Joining  their  hands)  And  I  say  so 
too.  And,  Mr.  Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good  a  wife 
as  she  has  a  daughter,  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  re- 
pent your  bargain.  So  now  to  supper.  To-morrow 
we  shall  gather  all  the  poor  of  the  parish  about  us, 
and  the  mistakes  of  the  night  shall  be  crowned  with 
a  merry  morning.  So,  boy,  take  her;  and,  as  you 
have  been  mistaken  in  the  mistress,  my  wish  is,  that 
you  may  never  be  mistaken  in  the  wife. 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


\ksz 


;  .■■:•:  a- 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUKK.  249 

EPILOGUE, 

BY   DR.    GOLDSMITH. 

SPOKEN    BV   MRS.    BULKLET,   IN   THE   CHARACTER   OF 
MISS   HARDCASTLE. 

Well,  having  stoop'd  to  conquer  with  success, 
And  gain'd  a  husband  without  aid  from  dress, 
Still,  as  a  bar-maid,  I  could  wish  it  too, 
As  1  have  conquer'd  him  to  conquer  you  : 
And  let  me  say,  for  all  your  resolution, 
That  pretty  bar-maids  have  done  execution. 
Our  life  is  all  a  play,  composed  to  please ; 
'  We  have  our  exits  and  our  entrances.' 
The  first  act  shews  the  simple  country  maid, 
Harmless  and  young,  of  every  thing  afraid; 
Blushes  when  hired,  and,  with  unmeaning  action, 
'  I  hopes  as  how  to  give  you  satisfaction.' 
Her  second  act  displays  a  livelier  scene, — 
Th'  unblushing  bar-maid  of  a  country  inn, 
Who  whisks  about  the  house,  at  market  caters, 
Talks  Joud,  coquets  the  guests,  and  scolds  the  waiters. 
Next  the  scene  shifts  to  town,  and  there  she  soars, 
The  chop-house  toast  of  ogling  connoisseurs  : 
On  squires  and  cits  she  there  displays  her  arts, 
And  on  the  gridiron  broils  her  lovers'  hearts ; 
And,  as  she  smiles,  her  triumphs  to  complete, 
E'en  common-councilmen  forget  to  eat. 
The  fourtii  act  shews  her  wedded  to  the  squire, 
And  madam  now  begins  to  hold  it  higher; 
Pretends  to  taste,  at  operas  cries  euro, 
And  quits  her  Nancy  Dawson  for  Che  Faro  : 
Boats  upon  dancing,  and,  in  all  her  pride, 
Swims  round  the  room,  the  Heinel  of  Cheapside; 
Ogles  and  leers,  with  artificial  skill, 
Till,  having  lost  in  a<_:e  the  power  to  kill, 
She  sits  all  night  at  cards,  and  ogles  at  spadille. 
Such,  through  our  lives,  th'  eventful  history! 
The  fifth  and  last  act  still  remains  for  me  : 
The  bar-maid  now  for  your  protection  prays, 
Turn*  female  Barrister,  and  plead.-  for  Bays. 
112    ' 


230  SHK  Si'  (Oi'S  .  ■  j'  E&. 

EPILOGUE,* 

TO   BE   SPOKEN*    IN   THE   CHARACTER    OF   TONY    LDMPEIN, 

By  J.  CRADOCK,  Esq. 

Well,  now  all's  ended,  and  my  comrades  gone, 
Pray  what  becomes  of  mother's  nonly  son.* 
A  hopeful  blade  ! — in  town  I'll  fix  my  station, 
And  try  to  make  a  bluster  in  the  nation : 
As  for  my  cousin  Neville,  I  renounce  her — 
Off,  in  a  crack,  I'll  carry  big  Bet  Bouncer  ! 

Why  should  not  I  in  the  great  world  appear? 
I  soon  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  a-year  ! 
No  matter  what  a  man  may  here  inherit, 
In  London — gad,  they've  some  regard  to  spirit : 
I  see  the  horses  prancing  up  the  streets, 
And  big  Bet  Bouncer  bobs  to  all  she  meets; 
Then  hoiks  to  jigs  and  pastimes  every  night — 
Not  to  the  plays — they  say  it  an't  polite  : 
To  Sadler's  Wells,  perhaps,  or  operas  go, 
And  once,  by  chance,  to  the  roratorio. 
Thus,  here  and  there,  for  ever  up  and  down  ; 
We'll  set  the  fashions,  too,  to  half  the  town  ; 
And  then  at  auctions — money  ne'er  regard — 
Buy  pictures,  like  the  great,  ten  pounds  a-yard : 
Zounds !   we  shall  make  these  London  gentry  say, 
We  know  what's  damn'd  genteel  as  well  as  they  ' 

*  This  came  too  late  to  be  spoken. 


•_5t 


ESSAYS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

Tiierk  is  not,  perhaps,  a  more  whimsical  figure  ia 
nature,  than  a  man  of  real  modesty  who  assumes  an 
air  of  impudence  ;  who,  while  his  heart  beats  with 
anxiety,  studies  case  and  affects  good-humour.  In 
this  situation,  however,  every  unexperienced  writer,  as 
I  am,  finds  himself.  Impressed  with  terrors  of  the 
tribunal  before  whirl)  he  is  going  to  appear,  his  natu- 
ral humour  turns  to  pertness,  and  for  real  wit  he  is 
obliged  to  substitute  vivaeity. 

For  my  part,  as  I  was  never  distinguished  for  ad- 
dress, and  have  often  even  blundered  in  making  my 
bow,  I  am  at  a  loss  whether  to  be  merry  or  sad  on  this 
solemn  occasion.  Should  I  mode<tly  decline  all  merit, 
it  is  too  probable  the  hasty  reader  may  tr«ke  me  at  my 
word.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  like  labourers  in  the 
magazine  trade,  I  humbly  presume  to  promise  an  epi- 
tome of  all  the  good  things  that  were  ever  said  or 
written,  those  readers  I  most  desire  to  please  may  for- 
sake me. 

My  bookseller,  in  this  dilemma,  perceiving  my 
embarrassment,  instantly  offered  his  assistance  and 
advice.  '  You  must  know,  sir,'  says  he,  '  that  the 
republic  of  letters  is  at  present  divided  into  several 
classes.  One  writer  excels  at  a  plan  or  a  title-page  ; 
another  works  away  at  the  body  of  the  book  ;  and  5» 
third  is  a  dab  at  an  index.  Thus  a  magazine  is  not 
the  result  of  any  single  man's  industry,  but  goes 
through  as  many  hands  as  a  new  pin,  before  it  is  fit 
for  the  public.     I   fancy,  sir,'  continues  he    '  I  can 


252  ESSAYS. 

provide  an  eminent  hand,  and  upon  moderate  terms 
to  draw  up  a  promising  plan  to  smooth  up  our  readers 
a  little  ;  and  pay  them,  as  Colonel  Chartres  paid  his 
seraglio,  at  the  rate  of  three-halfpence  in  hand,  and 
three  shillings  more  in  promises.' 

He  was  proceeding  in  his  advice,  which,  however,  I 
thought  proper  to  decline,  by  assuring  him,  that  as  I 
intended  to  pursue  no  fixed  method,  so  it  was  impos- 
sible to  form  any  regular  plan  ;  determined  never  to 
be  tedious  in  order  to  be  logical ;  wherever  pleasure 
presented  I  was  resolved  to  follow. 

It  will  be  improper,  therefore,  to  pall  the  reader's 
curiosity  by  lessening  his  surprise,  or  anticipate  any 
pleasure  I  am  to  procure  him,  bv  saying  what  shall 
come  next.  Happy,  could  any  effort  of  mine  but  re- 
press one  criminal  pleasure,  or  but  for  a  moment  fill 
up  an  interval  of  anxiety  1  How  gladly  would  I  lead 
mankind  from  the  vain  prospects  of  life,  to  prospects 
of  innocence  and  ease,  where  every  breeze  breathes 
health,  and  every  sound  is  but  the  echo  of  tranquillity  ! 

But  whatever  may  be  the  merit  of  his  intentions, 
every  writer  is  now  convinced  that  he  must  be  chiefly 
indebted  to  good  fortune  for  finding  readers  willing  to 
allow  him  any  degree  of  reputation.  It  has  been  re- 
marked, that  almost  every  character  which  has  excited 
either  attention  or  pity,  has  owed  part  of  its  success  to 
merit,  and  part  to  a  happy  concurrence  of  circum- 
stances in  its  favour.  Had  Cffisar  or  Cromwell  ex- 
changed countries,  the  one  might  have  been  a  serjeant, 
and  the  other  an  exciseman.  So  it  is  with  wit,  which 
generally  succeeds  more  from  being  happily  addressed, 
than  from  its  native  poignancy.  A  jest  calculated  to 
spread  at  a  gaming-table,  may  be  received  with  per- 
fect indifference  should  it  happen  to  drop  in  a  macke- 
rel-boat. We  have  all  seen  ddfcices  triumph  in  some 
companies,  where  men  of  real  humour  were  disre- 
garded, by  a  general  combination  in  favour  of  stupidity. 
To  drive  the  observation  as  far  as  it  will  go,  should 
the  labours  of  a  writer,  who  designs  his  performances 
for  readers  of  a  more  refined  appetite,  fall  into  the 


ESSAYS.  253 

hands  of  a  devourer  of  compilations,  what  can  he  ex- 
pect but  contempt  and  confusion?  If  his  merits  are 
to  be  determined  by  judges  who  estimate  the  value  of 
a  book  from  its  bulk,  or  its  frontispiece,  every  rival 
must  acquire  an  easy  superiority,  who  with  persuasive 
eloquence  promises  four  extraordinary  pages  of  letter- 
press or  three  beautiful  prints,  curiously  coloured 
from  Nature. 

Thus,  then,  though  I  cannot  promise  as  much 
entertainment,  or  as  much  elegance,  as  others  have 
done,  yet  the  reader  may  be  assured  he  shall  have  as 
much  of  both  as  I  can.  He  shall,  at  least,  find  me 
alive  while  I  study  his  entertainnent ;  for  I  solemnly 
assure  him,  I  was  never  yet  possessed  of  the  secret  of 
writing  and  sleeping. 

During  the  course  of  this  paper,  therefore,  all  the 
wit  and  learning  I  have,  are  heartily  at  his  service  ; 
which  if,  after  so  candid  a  confession,  he  should,  not- 
withstanding, still  find  intolerably  dull,  or  low,  or  sad 
stuff,  this  1  protest  is  more  than  1  know  ;  1  have  a 
clear  conscience,  and  am  entirely  out  of  the  secret. 
.  Yet  I  would  not  have  him,  upon  the  perusal  of  a 
single  paper,  pronounce  me  incorrigible  ;  he  may  try 
a  second,  which,  as  there  is  a  studied  difference  in 
subject  and  style,  may  be  more  suited  to  his  taste ;  if 
this  also  fails,  I  must  refer  him  to  a  third,  or  even  a 
fourtli,  in  case  of  extremity  ;  if  he  should  still  continue 
refractory,  and  find  me  dull  to  the  last,  I  must  inform 
him,  witti  Bayes  in  the  Rehearsal,  that  1  think  him 
a  very  odd  kind  of  fellow,  and  desire  no  more  of  his 
acquaintance  ;  but  still,  if  my  readers  impute  the  ge- 
neral tenor  of  my  subject  to  me  as  a  fault,  I  must  beg 
leave  to  tell  them  a  story. 

A  traveller,  in  his  way  to  Italy,  found  himself  in  a 
country  where  the  inhabitants  had  each  a  large  ex- 
crescence depending  from  the  chin  ;  a  deformity 
which,  as  it  was  endemic,  and  the  people  little  used 
to  strangers,  it  had  been  the  custom,  time  immemo- 
rial, to  look  upon  as  the  greatest  beauty.  Ladies  grew 
toasts  from  the  size  of  their  chins,  and  no  men  were 


254  ESSAYS. 

beaux  whose  faces  were  not  broadest  at  the  bot- 
tom. It  was  Sunday  ;  a  country-church  was  at  hand, 
and  our  traveller  was  willing  to  perform  the  duties 
of  the  day.  Upon  his  first  appearance  at  the  church- 
door,  the  eyes  of  all  were  fixed  on  the  stranger  ;  but 
what  was  tlieir  amazement,  when  they  found  that  he 
actually  wanted  that  emblem  of  beauty,  a  pursed 
ehin  !  Stifled  bursts  of  laughter,  winks,  and  whispers, 
circulated  from  visage  to  visage  ;  the  prismatic  figure 
of  the  stranger's  face,  was  a  fund  of  infinite  gaiety. 
Our  traveller  could  no  longer  patiently  continue  an 
object  of  deformity  to  point  at.  '  Good  folks,'  said 
he,  '  I  perceive  that  I  am  a  very  ridiculous  figure 
here,  but  I  assure  you  I  am  reckoned  no  way  de- 
formed at  home.' 


LOVE    AND     FRIENDSHIP;     OR,    THE    STORY 
OF  ALCANDER  AND  SEPTIMUS. 

(Taken  from  a  ByzaHtine  Historian.) 

Athens,  even  long  after  the  decline  of  the  Roman 
empire,  still  continued  the  seat  of  learning,  politeness, 
and  wisdom.  Theodoric,  the  Ostrogoth,  repaired  the 
schools  which  barbarity  was  suffering  to  fall  into  decay, 
and  continued  those  pensions  to  men  of  learning, 
which  avaricious  governors  had  monopolized. 

In  this  city,  and  about  this  period,  Alcander  and 
Septimius  were  fellow-students  together;  the  one, 
the  most  subtle  reasoner  of  all  the  Lyceum  ;  the  other, 
the  most  eloquent  speaker  in  the  academic  grove. 
Mutual  admiration  soon  begot  a  friendship.  Their 
fortunes  were  nearly  equal,  and  they  were  natives  of 
the  two  most  celebrated  cities  in  the  world  ;  for 
Alcander  was  of  Athens,  Septimius  came  from  Rome. 

In  this  state  of  harmony  they  lived  for  some  time 
together,  when  Alcander,  after  passing  the  fir<t  part 
of  his  youth  in  the  indolence  of  philosophy,  thought 
at  length  of  entering  into  the  busy  world  ;  and  as  a 
6tep  previous  to  this,  placed  his  affections  on  i  lypatia, 


ESSAYS.  255 

a  lady  or  exquisite  beauty.  The  day  of  their  intended 
nuptials  was  fixed  ;  tlie  previous  ceremonies  were  per- 
formed ;  and  nothing  now  remained  but  her  being 
conducted  in  triumph  to  the  apartment  of  the  intended 
bridegroom. 

Alcander's  exultation  in  his  own  happiness,  or 
being  unable  to  enjoy  any  satisfaction  without  making 
his  friend  Septimius  a  partner,  prevailed  upon  him  to 
introduce  Hypatia  to  his  fellow-student ;  which  he 
did,  with  all  the  gaiety  of  a  man  who  found  himself 
equally  happy  in  friendship  and  love.  But  this  was 
an  interview  fatal  to  the  future  peace  of  both  ;  for 
Septimius  no  sooner  saw  her  but  he  was  smitten  with 
an  involuntary  passion  ;  and,  though  he  used  every 
effort  to  suppress  desires  at  once  so  imprudent  and 
unjust,  the  emotions  of  his  mind  in  a  short  time  became 
so  strong,  that  they  brought  on  a  fever,  which  the 
physicians  judged  incurable- 

During  this  illness  Alcander  watched  him  with  all 
the  anxiety  of  fondness,  and  brought  his  mistress  to 
join  in  those  amiable  othces  of  friendship.  The  saga- 
city of  the"  physicians,  by  these  means,  soon  discovered 
that  the  cause  of  their  patient's  disorder  was  love  ;  and 
Alcander,  being  apprized  of  their  discoverv,  at  length 
extorted  a  confession  from  the  reluctant  dying  lover. 

It  would  but  delay  the  narrative  to  describe  the 
conflict  between  love  and  friendship  in  the  breast  of 
Alcander  on  this  occasion  ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  the 
Athenians  were  at  that  time  arrived  at  such  refine- 
ment in  morals,  that  every  virtue  was  carried  to  excess : 
in  short,  forgetful  of  his  own  felicity,  he  gave  up  his 
intended  bride,  in  all  her  charms,  to  the  young  Roman. 
They  were  married  privately  by  his  connivance,  and 
this  unlooked-for  change  of  fortune  wrought  as  unex- 
pected a  change  in  the  constitution  of  the  now  happy 
Septimius.  In  a  few  days  he  was  perfectly  recovered, 
and  set  out  with  his  fair  partner  for  Rome.  Here,  by 
anexertiuo.  of  those  talents  which  he  was  so  eminently 
possessed  of,  Septimius,  in  a  few  years,  arrived  at  the 


256 


ESSAYS. 


highest  dignities  of  the  state,  and  was  constituted  the 
city  judge,  or  praetor. 

In  the  mean  time  Alcander  not  only  felt  the  pain  of 
being  separated  from  his  friend  and  his  mistress,  but  a 
prosecution  was  commenced  against  him  by  the  rela- 
tions of  Hypatia,  for  having  basely  given  up  his  bride, 
as  was  suggested,  for  money.  His  innocence  of  the 
crime  laid  to  his  charge,  and  even  his  eloquence  in  his 
own  defence,  were  not  able  to  withstand  the  influence 
of  a  powerful  party.  He  was  cast,  and  condemned  to 
pay  an  enormous  fine.  However,  being  unable  to  raise 
so  large  a  sum  at  the  time  appointed,  his  possessions 
were  confiscated,  he  himself  was  stripped  of  the  habit 
of  freedom,  exposed  as  a  slave  in  the  market-place, 
and  sold  to  the  highest  bidder. 

A  merchant  of  Thrace  becoming  his  purchaser, 
Alcander,  with  some  other  companions  of  distress,  was 
carried  into  that  region  of  desolation  and  sterility.  His 
stated  employment  was  to  follow  the  herds  of  an  im- 
perious master,  and  his  success  in  hunting  was  all  that 
was  allowed  him  to  supply  his  precarious  subsistence. 
Every  morning  awaked  him  to  a  renewal  of  famine  or 
toil,  and  every  change  of  season  served  but  to  aggra- 
vate his  unsheltered  distress.  After  some  years  of 
bondage,  however,  an  opportunity  of  escaping  offered  ; 
he  embraced  it  with  ardour;  so  that  travelling  by 
night,  and  lodging  in  caverns  by  day,  to  shorten  a  long 
story,  he  at  last  arrived  in  Rome.  The  same  day  on 
which  Alcander  arrived,  Septimius  sat  administering 
justice  in  the  forum,  whither  our  wanderer  came, 
expecting  to  be  instantly  known,  and  publicly  acknow- 
ledged, by  his  former  friend.  Here  he  stood  the  whole 
day  amongst  the  crowd,  watching  the  eyes  of  the 
judge,  and  expecting  to  be  taken  notice  of;  but  he 
was  so  much  altered  by  a  long  succession  of  hardships, 
that  he  continued  unnoticed  amongst  the  rest ;  and  in 
the  evening,  when  he  was  going  up  to  the  praetor's 
chair,  lie  was  brutally  repulsed  by  the  attending 
lietors.  The  attention  of  the  poor  is  generally  driven 
from   one  ungrateful  object   to   another;   for   night 


ESSAYS.  257 

coming  on,  he  now  found  himself  under  the  necessity 
of  seeking  a  place  to  lie  in,  and  yet  knew  not  where 
to  apply.  All  emaciated,  and  in  rags,  as  he  was,  none 
of  the  citizens  would  harbour  so  much  wretchedness  ; 
and  sleeping  in  the  streets  might  be  attended  with  in- 
terruption or  danger ;  in  short,  he  was  obliged  to  take 
up  his  lodgings  in  one  of  the  tombs  without  the  city, 
the  usual  retreat  of  guilt,  poverty,  and  despair.  In 
this  mansion  of  horror,  laying  his  head  upon  an  in- 
verted urn,  he  forgot  his  miseries  for  a  while  in  sleep, 
and  found  on  his  flinty  couch  more  ease  than  beds  of 
down  can  supply  to  the  guilty. 

As  he  continued  here,  about  midnight  two  robbers 
came  to  make  this  their  retreat,  but  happening  to  dis- 
agree about  the  division  of  their  plunder,  one  of  them 
stabbed  the  other  to  the  heart,  and  left  him  weltering 
in  blood  at  the  entrance.  In  these  circumstances  he 
was  found  next  morning  dead  at  the  mouth  of  the 
vault.  This  naturally  inducing  a  farther  inquiry,  an 
alarm  was  spread ;  the  cave  was  examined ;  and 
Alcander  being  found,  was  immediately  apprehended, 
and  accused  of  robbery  and  murder.  The  circum- 
stances against  him  were  strong,  and  the  wretchedness 
of  his  appearance  confirmed  suspicion.  Misfortune 
and  he  were  now  so  long  acquainted,  that  he  at  last 
became  regardless  of  life.  He  detested  a  world  where 
he  had  found  only  ingratitude,  falsehood,  and  cruelty  ; 
he  was  determined  to  make  no  defence  ;  and  thus, 
lowering  with  resolution,  he  was  dragged  bound  with 
cords  before  the  tribunal  of  Septimius.  As  the  proofs 
were  positive  against  him,  and  he  ofTered  nothing  in 
his  own  vindication,  the  judge  was  proceeding  to  doom 
him  to  a  most  cruel  and  ignominious  death,  when  the 
attention  of  the  multitude  was  soon  diverted  by  another 
object.  The  robber,  who  had  been  really  guilty,  was 
apprehended  selling  his  plunder,  and,  struck  with  a 
panic,  had  confessed  his  crime.  He  was  brought  bound 
to  the  same  tribunal,  and  acquitted  every  oilier  person 
of  any  partnership  in  his  guilt.  Alcander's  innocence 
therefore  appeared ;    but  the  sullen  rashness  of  his 


258  ESSAYS. 

conduct  remained  a  wonder  to  the  surrounding  multi- 
tude ;  but  their  astonishment  was  still  farther  increased 
when  they  saw  their  judge  start  from  his  tribunal  to 
embrace  the  supposed  criminal.  Septimius  recollected 
his  friend  and  former  benefactor,  and  hung  upon  his 
neck  with  tears  of  pity  and  joy.  Need  the  sequel  be 
related  I — Alcander  was  acquitted,  shared  the  friend- 
ship and  honours  of  the  principal  citizens  of  Rome, 
lived  afterwards  in  happiness  and  ease,  and  left  it  to 
be  engraved  on  his  tomb,  that  no  circumstances  are 
so  desperate  which  Providence  may  not  relieve. 


ON  HAPPINESS  OF  TEMPER. 

When  I  reflect  on  the  unambitious  retirement  in 
which  I  passed  the  early  part  of  my  life  in  the  countiy, 
I  cannot  avoid  feeling  some  pain  in  thinking  that  those 
happy  days  are  never  to  return.  In  that  retreat  all 
nature  seemed  capable  of  affording  pleasure ;  I  then 
made  no  refinements  on  happiness,  but  could  be 
pleased  with  the  most  awkward  efforts  of  rustic  mirth, 
thought  cross-purposes  the  highest  stretch  of  human 
wit,  and  questions  and  commands  the  most  rational 
way  of  spending  the  evening.  Happy  could  so  charm- 
ing an  illusion  continue  !  I  find  that  age  and  know- 
ledge only  contribute  to  sour  our  dispositions.  My 
present  enjoyments  may  be  more  refined,  but  they  are 
Infinitely  less  pleasing.  The  pleasure  the  best  actor 
gives,  can  no  way  compare  to  that  I  have  received  from 
a  country  wag  who  imitated  a  quaker's  sermon.  The 
music  of  the  finest  singer  is  dissonance  to  what  I  felt 
when  our  old  dairy-maid  sung  me  into  tears  with  John- 
ny Armstrong's  Last  Good  Night,  or  the  Cruelty  of 
Barbara  Allen. 

Writers  of  every  age  have  endeavoured  to  shew  that 
pleasure  is  in  us,  and  not  in  the  objects  offered  for 
our  amusement.  If  the  soul  be  happily  disposed, 
every  thing  becomes  capable  of  affording  entertain- 
ment, and  distress  will  almost  want  a  name.     Every 


ESSAYS.  259 

occurrence  passes  in  review  like  the  figures  of  a  pro- 
cession :  some  may  be  awkward,  others  ill  dressed ; 
but  none  but  a  fool  is  for  this  enraged  with  the  master 
of  the  ceremonies. 

I  remember  to  have  once  seen  a  slave  in  a  fortifica- 
tion in  Flanders,  who  appeared  no  way  touched  with 
his  situation.  He  was  maimed,  deformed,  and  chained  ; 
obliged  to  toil  from  the  appearance  of  day  till  night- 
fall ;  and  condemned  to  this  for  life  :  yet,  with  all 
these  circumstances  of  apparent  wretchedness,  he 
sung,  would  have  danced  but  that  he  wanted  a  leg, 
and  appeared  the  merriest,  happiest  man  of  all  the 
garrison.  What  a  practical  philosopher  was  here  !  a 
happy  constitution  supplied  philosophy  ;  and,  though 
seemingly  destitute  of  wisdom,  he  was  really  wise.  No 
reading  or  study  had  contributed  to  disenchant  the 
fairy-land  around  him.  Every  thing  furnished  him 
with  an  opportunity  of  mirth  ;  and,  though  some 
thought  him,  from  his  insensibility,  a  fool,  he  was  such 
an  idiot  as  philosophers  should  wish  to  imitate  ;  for 
all  philosophy  is  only  forcing  the  trade  of  happiness, 
when  nature  seems  to  deny  the  means. 

They  who,  like  our  slave,  can  place  themselves  on 
that  side  of  the  world  in  which  every  thing  appears  in 
a  pleasing  light,  will  find  something  in  every  occur- 
rence to  excite  their  good-humour.  The  most  cala- 
mitous events,  either  to  themselves  or  others,  can  biiug 
no  new  affliction  ;  the  whole  world  is  to  them  a  theatre, 
on  which  comedies  only  are  acted.  All  the  bustle  of 
heroism,  or  the  rants  of  ambition,  serve  only  to  heighten 
the  absurdity  of  the  scene,  arid  make  the  humouramore 
poignant.  They  feel,  in  short,  as  little  anguish  at 
their  own  distress,  or  the  complaints  of  others,  as  the 
undertaker,  though  dressed  in  black,  feels  sorrow  at  a 
funeral. 

Of  all  the  men  I  ever  read  of,  the  famous  cardinal 

de   Retz   possessed    this   happiness  of  temper  in  the 

r<  e.     As  he  was  a  man  of  gallantry,  and 

despised  all  that  wore   the  pedantic   appearance  of 

ohilosophy,  wherever  pleasure  was  to  be  bold,  he  was 


260  ESSAYS. 

generally  foremost  to  raise  the  auction.  Being  a  uni- 
versal admirer  of  the  fair  sex,  when  he  found  one  lady 
cruel,  he  generally  fell  in  love  with  another,  from 
whom  he  expected  a  more  favourable  reception.  If 
she  too  rejected  his  addresses,  he  never  thought  of 
retiring  into  deserts,  or  pining  in  hopeless  distress :  he 
persuaded  himself,  that  instead  of  loving  the  lady,  he 
only  fancied  that  he  had  loved  her,  and  so  all  was 
well  again.  When  Fortune  wore  her  angriest  look, 
and  he  at  last  fell  into  the  power  of  his  most  deadly 
enemy,  Cardinal  Mazarine  (being  confined  a  close 
prisoner  in  the  castle  of  Valenciennes),  he  never  at- 
tempted to  support  his  distress  by  wisdom  or  philo- 
sophy, for  he  pretended  to  neither.  He  only  laughed 
at  himself  and  his  persecutor,  and  seemed  infinitely 
pleased  at  his  new  situation.  In  this  mansion  of  dis- 
tress, though  secluded  from  his  friends,  though  denied 
all  the  amusements,  and  even  the  conveniences  of  life, 
he  still  retained  his  good-humour,  laughed  at  all  the 
little  spite  of  his  enemies,  and  carried  the  jest  so  far  as 
to  be  revenged  by  writing  the  life  of  his  jailer. 

All  that  the  wisdom  of  the  proud  can  teach  is,  to 
be  stubborn  or  sullen  uuder  misfortunes.  The  car- 
dinal's example  will  instruct  us  to  be  merry  in  cir- 
cumstances of  the  highest  affliction.  It  matters  not 
whether  our  good-humour  be  construed  by  others  into 
insensibility,  or  even  idiotism  ;  it  is  happiness  to  our- 
selves, and  none  but  a  fool  would  measure  his  satis- 
faction by  what  the  world  thinks  of  it ;  for  my  own 
part,  I  never  pass  by  one  of  our  prisons  for  debt,  that 
I  do  not  envy  that  felicity  which  is  still  going  forward 
among  those  people,  who  forget  the  cares  of  the  world 
by  being  shut  out  from  its  silly  ambition. 

The  happiest  silly  fellow  I  ever  knevr,  was  of  the 
number  of  those  good-natured  creatures  that  are  said 
to  do  no  harm  to  any  but  themselves.  Whenever  he 
fell  inio  misery,  he  usually  called  it  seeing  life.  If 
his  head  was  broke  by  a  chairman,  or  his  pocket 
picked  by  a  sharper,  he  comforted  himself  by  imitating 
the  Hibernian  dialect  of  the  one,  or  the  more  fashion- 


ESSAYS.  2G1 

able  cant  of  the  other.  Nothing  came  amiss  to  him. 
His  inattention  to  money-matters  had  incensed  his  fa- 
ther to  such  a  degree,  that  all  the  intercession  of  friends 
in  his  favour  was  fruitless.  The  old  gentleman  was 
on  his  death-bed.  The  whole  family,  and  Dick  among 
the  number,  gathered  around  him.  '  I  leave  my  se- 
cond son,  Andrew,' said  the  expiring  miser, '  my  whole 
estate,  and  desire  him  to  be  frugal.'  Andrew,  in  a 
sorrowful  tone,  as  is  usual  on  these  occasions,  prayed 
Heaven  to  prolong  his  life  and  health  to  enjoy  it  him- 
self. '  I  recommend  Simon,  my  third  son,  to  the  care 
of  his  elder  brother,  and  leave  him  beside  four  thou- 
sand pounds.' — '  Ah  !  father,'  cried  Simon,  in  great 
affliction  to  be  sure,  '  may  Heaven  give  you  life  and 
health  to  enjoy  it  yourself!'  At  last,  turning  to  poor 
Dick,  •  As  for  you,  you  have  always  been  a  sad  dog  ; 
you'll  never  come  to  good  ;  you'll  never  be  rich  ;  I'll 
leave  you  a  shilling  to  buy  a  halter.' — '  Ah  !  father,' 
cries  Dick,  without  any  emotion,  'may  Heaven  give 
you  life  and  health  to  enjoy  it  yourself!'  This  was 
all  the  trouble  the  loss  of  fortune  gave  this  thoughtless, 
imprudent  creature.  However,  the  tenderness  of  an 
uncle  recompensed  the  neglect  of  a  father  ;  and  my 
friend  is  now  not  only  excessively  good-humoured, 
but  competently  rich. 

Yes,  let  the  world  cry  out  at  a  bankrupt  who  ap- 
pears at  a  ball,  at  an  author  who  laughs  at  the  public, 
which  pronounces  him  a  dunce,  at  a  general  who 
smiles  at  the  approach  of  the  vulgar,  or  the  lady  who 
keeps  her  good-humour  in  spite  of  scandal ;  but  such 
is  the  wisest  behaviour  that  any  of  us  can  possibly 
assume.  It  is  certainly  a  better  way  to  oppose  cala- 
mity by  dissipation,  than  to  take  up  the  arms  of  reason 
or  resolution  to  oppose  it;  by  the  first  method,  we 
forget  our  miseries  ;  by  the  last,  we  only  conceal  them 
from  others  :  by  struggling  with  misfortunes,  we  are 
sure  to  receive  some  wounds  in  the  conflict;  but 
a  sure  method  to  come  off  victorious,  is  by  running 
away. 


fc= 


S52  ESSAYS. 

DESCRIPTION  OF  VARIOUS  CLUBS. 

I  remember  to  have  read  in  some  philosopher  (I  be* 
lieve  in  Tom  Brown's  works),  that,  let  a  man's  cha- 
racter, sentiments,  or  complexion,  be  what  they  will, 
he  can  find  company  in  London  to  match  them.  If 
he  be  splenetic,  he  may  every  day  meet  companions 
on  the  seats  in  St.  James's  Park,  with  whose  groans 
he 'may  mix  his  own,  and  pathetically  talk  of  the 
weather.  If  he  be  passionate,  he  may  vent  his  rage 
among  the  old  orators  at  Slaughter's  coffee-house,  and 
damn  the  nation  because  it  keeps  him  from  starving. 
If  he  be  phlegmatic,  he  may  sit  in  silence  at  the 
Humdrum  club  in  Ivy-lane  ;  and,  if  actually  mad, 
he  may  find  very  good  company  in  Moorfields,  either 
at  Bedlam  or  the  Foundry,  ready  to  cultivate  a  nearer 
acquaintance.    . 

But,  although  such  as  have  a  knowledge  of  the 
town  may  easily  class  themselves  with  tempers  con- 
genial to  their  own,  a  countryman  who  comes  to  live 
in  London  finds  nothing  more  difficult.  With  regard 
to  myself,  none  ever  tried  with  more  assiduity,  or  came 
off  with  such  indifferent  success.  I  spent  a  whole 
season  in  the  search,  during  which  time  my  name  has 
been  enrolled  in  societies,  lodges,  convocations,  and 
meetings  without  number.  To  some  I  was  introduced 
by  a  friend,  to  others  invited  by  an  advertisement ;  to 
these  I  introduced  myself,  and  to  those  I  changed 
my  name  to  gain  admittance.  In  short,  no  coquet 
was  ever  more  solicitous  to  match  her  ribands  to  her 
complexion,  than  I  to  suit  my  club  to  my  temper; 
for  I  was  too  obstinate  to  bring  my  temper  to  conform 
to  it. 

The  first  club  I  entered  upon  coming  to  town,  was 
that  of  the  Choice  Spirits.  The  name  was  entirely 
suited  to  my  taste  ;  i  was  a  lover  of  mirth,  good- 
humour,  a-nd  even  sometimes  of  fun,  from  my  child- 
hood. 

As  no  other  passport  was  requisite  but  the  payment 
of  two  shillings  at  the  door,  I  introduced  myself  with- 


ESSAYS.  263 

out  farther  ceremony  to  the  members,  who  wete  al- 
ready assembled,  and  had,  for  some  time,  begun  upon 
business.  The  grand,  with  a  mallet  in  his  hand,  pre- 
sided at  the  head  of  the  table.  I  could  not  avoid, 
upon  my  entrance,  making  use  of  all  my  skill  in  phy- 
siognomy, in  order  to  discover  that  superiority  of  ge- 
nius in  men  who  had  taken  a  title  so  superior  to  the 
rest  of  mankind.  I  expected  to  see  the  lines  of  every 
face  marked  with  strong  thinking  ;  but,  though  I  had 
some  skill  in  this  science,  1  could  for  my  life  discover 
nothing  but  a  pert  simper,  fat  or  profound  stupidity. 

My  speculations  were  soon  interrupted  by  the  grand, 
who  had  kr.ocked  down  Mr.  Spriggins  for  a  song.  I 
was,  upon  this,  whispered  by  one  of  the  company  who 
sat  next  me,  that  I  should  now  see  something  touched 
off  to  a  nicety,  for  Mr.  Spriggins  was  going  to  give  us 
Mad  Tom  in  all  its  glory.  Mr.  Spriggins  endeavoured 
to  excuse  himself;  for,  as  he  was  to  act  a  madman 
and  a  king,  it  was  impossible  to  go  through  the  part 
properly  without  a  crown  and  chains.  His  excuses 
were  overruled  by  a  great  majority,  and  with  much 
vociferation.  The  president  ordered  up  the  jack-chain  ; 
and,  instead  of  a  crown,  our  performer  covered  his 
brows  with  an  inverted  Jordan.  After  he  had  rattled 
his  chain,  and  shook  his  head,  to  the  great  delight  of 
the  whole  company,  he  began  his  song.  As  1  have 
heard  few  young  fellows  offer  to  sing  in  company  that 
did  not  expose  themselves,  it  was  no  great  disappoint- 
ment to  me  to  find  Mr.  Spriggins  among  the  number; 
however,  not  to  seem  an  odd  fish,  I  rose  from  my  seat 
in  rapture,  cried  out,  'Bravo!  encore!'  and  slapped 
the  table  as  loud  as  any  of  the  rest. 

The  gentleman  who  sat  next  me  seemed  highly 
pleased  with  my  taste,  and  the  ardour  of  my  approba- 
tion ;  and  whispering  told  me  I  had  suffered  an  im- 
mense loss ;  for,  had  I  come  a  few  minutes  sooner,  I 
might  have  heard  Geeho  Dobbin  sung  in  a  tiptop 
manner,  by  the  pimple-nosed  spirit  at  the  president's 
right  elbow :  but  he  was  evaporated  before  I  came. 

As  1  was  expressing  my  uneasiness  at  this  disap. 

b 


254  ESSAYS. 

pointment,  I  found  the  attention  of  the  company  em. 
ployed  upon  a  fat  figure,  who,  with  a  voice  more  rough 
than  the  Staffordshire  giant's,  was  giving  us  the  '  Softly 
sweet,  in  Lydian  measure,' of  Alexander's  Feast.  After 
a  short  pause  of  admiration,  to  this  succeeded  a  Welsh 
dialogue,  with  the  humours  of  Teague  and  Taffy;  after 
that  came  on  Old  Jackson,  with  a  story  between  every 
stanza  :  next  was  sung  the  Dust-Cart,  and  then  Solo- 
mon's Song.  The  glass  began  now  to  circulate  pretty 
freely;  those  who  were  silent  when  sober,  would  now 
be  heard  in  their  turn  ;  every  man  had  his  song,  and 
he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  heard  as  well 
as  any  of  the  rest :  one  begged  to  be  heard  while  he 
gave  Death  and  the  Lady  in  high  taste  ;  another  sung 
to  a  plate  which  he  kept  trundling  on  the  edges ;  no- 
thing was  now  heard  but  singing ;  voice  rose  above 
voice,  and  the  whole  became  one  universal  shout, 
when  the  landlord  came  to  acquaint  the  company  that 
the  reckoning  was  drunk  out.  Rabelais  calls  the  mo- 
ments in  which  a  reckoning  is  mentioned,  the  most 
melancholy  of  our  lives  :  never  was  so  much  noise  so 
quickly  quelled,  as  by  this  short  but  pathetic  oration 
of  our  landlord.  '  Drunk  out !'  was  echoed  in  a  tone 
of  discontent  round  the  table  :  '  drunk  out  already ! 
that  was  very  odd  !  that  so  much  punch  could  be  drunk 
out  already  !  impossible  !'  The  landlord,  however,  seem- 
ing resolved  not  to  retreat  from  his  first  assurances, 
the  company  was  dissolved,  and  a  president  chosen 
for  the  night  ensuing. 

A  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  was  complaining  some 
time  after  of  the  entertainment  1  ha\e  been  describ- 
ing, proposed  to  bring  me  to  the  club  that  he  fre- 
quented ;  which,  he  fancied,  would  suit  the  gravity 
of  my  temper  exactly.  '  We  have,  at  the  Muzzy 
club,'  says  he,  '  no  riotous  mirth  nor  awkward  ribald- 
ry ;  no  confusion  or  bawling  ;  all  is  conducted  with 
wisdom  and  decency:  besides,  some  of  our  members 
are  worth  forty  thousand  pounds  ;  men  of  prude&r-e 
uid  foresight  everyone  of  them  :  these  are  the  pioper 
\cquaintauce,  and  to  such  I  will  to-night  introduce 


ESSAYS.  2G5 

3011.'  I  was  charmed  at  the  proposal;  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  men  worth  forty  thousand  pounds,  and 
to  talk  wisdom  the  whole  night,  were  offers  that  threw 
me  into  rapture. 

At  seven  o'clock  I  was  accordingly  introduced  by 
my  friend  ;  not  indeed  to  the  company.-  for,  though  I 
made  my  best  bow,  they  seemed  insensible  of  my  ap- 
proach ;  but  to  the  table  at  which  they  were  sitting. 
Upon  my  entering  the  room,  I  could  not  avoid  feeling 
a  secret  veneration  from  the  solemnity  of  the  scene 
before  me  ;  the  members  kept  a  profound  silence,  each 
with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a  pewter  pot  in  his  hand, 
and  with  faces  that  might  easily  be  construed  into  ab- 
solute wisdom.  Happy  society  !  thought  1  to  myself, 
where  the  members  think  before  they  speak,  deliver 
nothing  rashly,  but  convey  their  thoughts  to  each  other 
pregnant  with  meaning,  and  matured  by  reflection. 

In  this  pleasing  speculation  1  continued  a  full  half 
hour,  expecting  each  moment  that  somebody  would 
begin  to  open  his  mouth  ;  every  time  the  pipe  was 
laid  down,  I  expected  it  was  to  speak  ;  but  it  was  only 
to  spit.  At  length,  resolving  to  break  the  charm  my- 
self, and  overcome  their  extreme  diffidence,  for  to  this 
I  imputed  their  silence,  I  rubbed  my  hands,  and, 
looking  as  wise  as  possible,  observed  that  the  nights 
began  to  grow  a  little  coolish  at  this  time  of  the  year. 
This,  as  it  was  directed  to  none  of  the  company  in 
particular,  none  thought  himself  obliged  to  answer  ; 
wherefore  I  continued  still  to  rub  my  hands  and  look 
wise.  My  next  effort  was  addressed  to  a  gentleman 
who  sat  next  me  ;  to  whom  1  observed,  that  the  beer 
was  extremely  good  ;  my  neighbour  made  no  reply, 
but  by  a  large  puff  of  tobacco  smoke. 

I  now  began  to  be  uneasy  in  this  dumb  society,  till 
one  of  them  a  little  relieved  me  by  observing,  that 
bread  had  not  risen  these  three  weeks.  '  Ah  !'  says 
another,  still  keeping  the  pipe  in  his  mouth,  '  that 
puts  me  in  mind  of  a  pleasant  story  about  that — hem 
— very  well  ;  you  must  know — but,  before  I  begin — 
sir,  my  service  to  you — where  was  1  V 
N 


•26G  ESSAYS. 

My  next  club  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Hawnonical 
Society  ;  probably  from  that  love  of  order  and  friend- 
ship which  every  person  commends  in  institutions  of 
this  nature.  The  landlord  was  himself  founder.  The 
money  spent  is  fourpence  each  ;  and  they  sometimes 
whip  for  a  double  reckoning.  To  this  club  few  je- 
commendations  are  requisite  except  the  introductory 
fourpence,  and  my  landlord's  good  word,  which,  as 
he  gains  by  it,  he  never  refuses. 

We  all  here  talked  and  behaved  as  every  body  else 
usually  does  on  his  club-night ;  we  discussed  the 
topic  of  the  day,  drank  each  other's  healths,  snuffed 
the  candles  with  our  fingers,  and  filled  our  pipes  from 
the  same  plate  of  tobacco.  The  company  saluted 
each  other  in  the  common  manner.  Mr.  Bellows- 
mender  hoped  Mr.  Currycomb-maker  had  not  caught 
cold  going  home  the  last  club-night ;  and  he  returned 
the  compliment  by  hopingthat  young  Master  Bellows- 
mender  had  got  well  again  of  the  chin-cough.  Doctor 
Twist  told  us  a  story  of  a  parliament  man  with  whom 
he  was  intimately  acquainted  ;  while  the  bug-man,  at 
the  same  time,  was  telling  a  better  story  of  a  noble 
lord  with  whom  he  could  do  any  thing.  A  gentleman 
in  a  black  wig  and  leather  breeches,  at  the  other  end 
of  the  table,  was  engaged  in  a  long  narrative  of  the 
ghost  in  Cock-lane :  he  had  read  it  in  the  papers  of 
the  day,  and  was  telling  it  to  some  that  sat  next  him, 
who  could  not  read.  Near  him  Mr.  Dibbins  was  dis- 
puting on  the  old  subject  of  religion  with  a  Jew  pedlar, 
over  the  table,  while  the  president  vainly  knocked 
down  Mr.  Leathersides  for  a  song.  Besides  the  com- 
bination of  these  voices,  which  I  could  hear  all  to- 
gether, and  which  formed  an  upper  part  to  the  con- 
cert, there  were  several  others  playing  under  parts  by 
themselves,  and  endeavouring  to  fasten  on  some  luck- 
less neighbour's  ear,  who  was  himself  bent  upon  the 
same  design  against  some  other. 

We  have  often  heard  of  the  speech  of  a  corporation, 
and  this  induced  me  to  transcribe  a  speech  of  this  club, 
taken  in  short  hand,  word  for  word,  as  it  was  spoken 


ESSAYS. 

by  every  member  of  the  company.  It  may  be  neces- 
sary to  observe,  that  the  man  who  told  of  the  ghost 
had  the  loudest  voice,  and  the  longest  story  to  tell,  so 
that  his  continuing  narrative  filled  every  chasm  in  the 
conversation. 

'  So,  sir,  d'ye  perceive  me,  the  ghost  giving  three 
loud  raps  at  the  bed-post' — '  Says  my  lord  to  me,  My 
dear  Smokeum,  you  know  there  is  no  man  upon  the 
face  of  the  yearth  for  whom  I  have  so  high' — '  A 
damnable  false  heretical  opinion  of  all  sound  doctrine 
and  good  learning;  for  I'll  tell  it  aloud,  and  spare 
not,  that' — '  Silence  for  a  song ;  Mr.  Leathersides  for 
a  song' — '  As  I  was  walking  upon  the  high  way,  I 
met  a  young  damsel' — '  Then  what  brings  you  here? 
says  the  parson  to  the  ghost' — '  Sanconiathon,  Mane- 
tho,  and  Berosus' — '  The  whole  way  from  Islington 
turnpike  to  Dog-house  bar' — '  Dam' — '  As  for  Abel 
Drugger,  sir,  he's  damn'd  low  in  it ;  my  prentice  boy 
has  more  of  the  gentleman  than  be' — '  l"or  murder 
will  out  one  time  or  another;  and  none  but  a  ghost, 
you  know,  gentlemen,  can' — '  Damme  if  1  don't ;  for 
my  friend,  whom  you  know,  gentlemen,  and  who  is  a 
parliament  man,  a  man  of  consequence,  a  dear  honest 
creature,  to  be  sure-;  we  were  laughing  last  night  at' 
— '  Death  and  damnation  upon  all  his  posterity  by 
simply  barely  tasting' — '  Sour  grapes,  as  the  fox  said 
once  when  he  could  not  reach  them  ;  and  I'll,  I'll 
tell  you  a  story  about  that,  that  will  make  you  burst 
your  sides  with  laughing.  A  fox  once' — '  Will  nobody 
listen  to  the  song?' — '  As  I  was  a  walking  upon  the 
highway,  I  met  a  young  damsel  both  buxom  and 
gay' — '  No  ghost,  gentlemen,  can  be  murdered  ;  nor 
did  I  ever  hear  but  of  one  ghost  killed  in  all  my  life, 
and  that  was  stabbed  in  the  belly  with  a' — '  My  blood 
and  soul  if  I  don't' — '  Mr.  Bellows-mender;  I  have 
the  honour  of  drinking  your  very  good  health' — 
•  Blast  me  if  I  do'—'  Dam'—'  Blood'—'  Bugs'— 
'  Fire'—'  Whiz'—'  Blid'— '  Tit'—'  Bat'—'  Trip'— 
The  rest  all  riot,  nonsense,  and  rapid  confusion. 

Were  I  to  be  angry  at  men  for  being  fools,  I  couVJ 


2G8  F.SSAYS. 

here  find  ample  room  for  declamation  ;  but,  alas  !  1 
have  been  a  fool  myself  ;  and  why  should  I  be  angry 
with  them  for  being  something  so  natural  to  every 
child  of  humanity  ? 

Fatigued  with  this  society,  I  was  introduced,  the 
following  night,  to  a  club  of  fashion.  On  taking  my 
place,  I  found  the  conversation  sufficiently  easy,  and 
tolerably  good-natured ;  for  my  lord  and  Sir  Paul 
were  not  yet  arrived.  I  now  thought  myself  com- 
pletely fitted,  and  resolving  to  seek  no  farther,  de- 
termined to  take  up  my  residence  here  for  the  winter  : 
while  my  temper  began  to  open  insensibly  to  the 
cheerfulness  I  saw  diffused  on  every  face  in  the 
room  :  but  the  delusion  soon  vanished,  when  the 
waiter  came  to  apprize  us  that  his  lordship  and  Sir 
Paul  were  just  arrived. 

From  this  moment  all  our  felicity  was  at  an  end  ; 
our  new  guests  bustled  into  the  room,  and  took  their 
seats  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Adieu  now  all  con- 
fidence ;  every  creature  strove  who  should  most  re- 
commend himself  to  our  members  of  distinction.  Each 
seemed  quite  regardless  of  pleasing  any  but  our  new 
guests ;  and  what  before  wore  the  appearance  of 
friendship,  was  now  turned  into  rivalry. 

Yet  1  could  not  observe  that,  amidst  all  this  flat- 
tery and  obsequious  attention,  our  great  men  took  any 
notice  of  the  rest  of  the  company.  Their  whole  dis- 
course was  addressed  to  each  other.  Sir  Paul  told 
his  lordship  a  long  story  of  Moravia  the  Jew ;  and 
his  lordship  gave  Sir  Paul  a  very  long  account  of  his 
new  method  of  managing  silkworms  ;  he  led  him,  and 
consequently  the  rest  of  the  company,  through  all  the 
stages  of  feeding,  sunning,  and  hatching  ;  with  an 
episode  on  mulberry-trees,  a  digression  upon  grass- 
seeds,  and  a  long  parenthesis  about  his  new  postilion. 
In  this  manner  we  travelled  on,  wishing  every  story 
to  be  the  last ;  but  all  in  vain  : 

'  Hills  over  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arose.' 

The  last  club  in  which  I  was  enrolled  a  member, 


ESSAYS. 

was  a  society  of  moral  philosophers,  as  they  called 
themselves,  who  assembled  twice  a  week,  in  Older  to 
shew  the  absurdity  of  the  present  mode  of  religion, 
and  establish  a  new  one  in  its  stead. 

I  found  the  members  very  warmly  disputing  when 
I  arrived  ;  not  indeed  about  religion  or  ethics,  but 
about  who  had  neglected  to  lay  down  his  preliminary 
sixpence  upon  entering  the  room.  The  president 
swore  that  he  had  laid  his  own  down,  and  so  swore  all 
the  company. 

During  this  contest,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  ob- 
serving the  laws,  and  also  the  members,  of  the  society. 
The  president,  who  had  been,  as  I  was  told,  lately  a 
bankrupt,  was  a  tall,  pale  figure,  with  a  long  black 
wig  the  next  to  him  was  dressed  in  a  large  white 
wig,  and  a  black  cravat :  a  third,  by  the  brovvnness 
of  his  complexion,  seemed  a  native  of  Jamaica  ;  and 
a  fourth,  by  his  hue,  appeared  to  be  a  blacksmith. 
But  their  rules  will  give  the  most  just  idea  of  their 
learning  and  principles. 

'  I.  We,  being  a  laudable  society  of  moral  philoso- 
phers, intend  to  dispute  twice  a  week  about  religion 
and  priestcraft ;  leaving  behind  us  old  wives'  tales, 
and  following  good  learning  and  sound  sense  :  and  if 
so  be,  that  any  other  persons  has  a  mind  to  be  of  the 
society,  they  shall  be  entitled  so  to  do,  upon  paying 
the  sum  of  three  shillings,  to  be  spent  by  the  company 
in  punch. 

'  11.  That  no  member  get  drunk  before  nine  of  the 
clock,  upon  pain  of  forfeiting  three-pence,  to  be  spent 
by  the  company  in  punch. 

*11I.  That  as  members  are  sometimes  apt  to  go 
away  without  paying,  every  person  shall  pay  sixpence 
upon  his  entering  the  room  ;  and  all  disputes  shall  be 
settled  by  a  majority;  and  all  fines  shall  be  paid  in 
punch. 

'  IV.  That  sixpence  shall  be  every  night  given  to 
the  president,  in  order  to  buy  books  of  learning  for  the 
good  of  the  society  ;  the  president  has  already  put  him- 
self to  a  good  deal  of  expense  in  buying  books  for  the 


270 


ESSAYS. 


club  ;  particularly  the  works  of  Tully,  Socrates, 
Cicero,  which  he  will  soon  read  to  the  society. 

'  V.  All  them  who  brings  a  new  argument  against 
religion,  and  who,  being  a  philosopher,  and  a  man  ot 
learning,  as  the  rest  of  us  is,  shall  be  admitted  to  the 
freedom  of  the  society,  upon  paying  sixpence  only,  to 
be  spent  in  punch. 

'  VI.  Whenever  we  are  to  have  an  extraordinary 
meeting,  it  shall  be  advertised  by  some  outlandish 
name  in  the  newspapers. 

'Saunders  Mac  Wild,  president. 
Anthony  Blewit,  vice-president, 

his  f  mark. 
William  Turpin,  secretary.' 


ON  THE  POLICY  OF  CONCEALING  OUR  WANTS, 
OK  POVERTY. 

It  is  usually  said  by  grammarians,  that  the  use  of  lan- 
guage is  to  express  our  wants  and  desires  ;  but  men 
who  know  the  world  hold,  and  1  think  with  some  show 
of  reason,  that  he  who  best  knows  how  to  keep  his  ne- 
cessities private,  is  the  most  likely  person  to  have  them 
redressed  ;  and  that  the  true  use  of  speech  is  not  so 
much  to  express  our  wants  as  to  conceal  them. 

When  we  reflect  on  the  manner  in  which  mankind 
generally  confer  their  favours,  there  appears  something 
so  attractive  in  riches,  that  the  large  heap  generally 
collects  from  the  smaller :  and  the  poor  find  as  much 
pleasure  in  increasing  the  enoimous  mass  of  the  rich, 
as  the  miser,  who  owns  it,  sees  happiness  in  its  increase. 
Nor  is  there  in  this  any  thing  repugnant  to  the  laws  of 
morality.  Seneca  himself  allows,  that,  in  conferring 
benefits,  the  present  should  always  be  suited  to  the 
dignity  of  the  receiver.  Thus  the  rich  receive  large 
presents,  and  are  thanked  for  accepting  them.  Men 
of  middling  stations  are  obliged  to  be  content  with 
presents  something  less  j  while  the  beggar,  who  may 


ESSaVS.  i7i 

be  truly  said  to  waul  indeed,  is  well  paid  if  a  farthing 
rewards  his  warmest  solicitations. 

Every  man  who  has  seen  the  world,  and  has  had  his 
'  ups  and  downs  in  life,  as  the  expression  is,  must  have 
frequently  experienced  the  truth  of  this  doctrine;  and 
must  know,  that  to  have  much,  or  to  seem  to  have  it, 
is  the  only  way  to  have  more.  Ovid  finely  compares 
a  man  of  broken  fortune  to  a  falling  column ;  the 
lower  it  sinks,  the  greater  weight  it  is  obliged  to  sus- 
tain. Thus,  when  a  man's  circumstances  are  such 
that  he  has  no  occasion  to  borrow,  he  finds  numbers 
willing  to  lend  him ;  but  should  his  wants  be  such, 
that  he  sues  for  a  trifle,  it  is  two  to  one  whether  he 
may  be  trusted  with  the  smallest  sum.  A  certain 
young  fellow,  whom  I  knew,  whenever  he  had  occa- 
sion to  ask  his  friend  for  a  guinea,  used  to  prelude  his 
request  as  if  he  wanted  two  hundred  ;  and  talked  so 
familiarly  of  large  sums,  that  none  could  ever  think 
he  wanted  a  small  one.  The  same  gentleman,  when- 
ever he  wanted  credit  for  a  suit  of  clothes,  always  made 
the  proposal  in  a  laced  coat ;  for  he  found,  by  expe- 
rience, that  if  he  appeared  shabby  on  these  occasions, 
his  tailor  had  taken  an  oath  against  trusting,  or,  what 
was  every  whit  as  bad,  his  foreman  was  out  of  tho 
way,  and  would  not  be  at  home  for  some  time. 

There  can  be  no  inducement  to  reveal  our  wants, 
except  to  find  pity,  and  by  this  means  relief;  but 
before  a  poor  man  opens  his  mind  in  such  circum- 
stances, he  should  first  consider  whether  he  is  con- 
tented to  lose  the  esteem  of  the  person  he  solicits,  and 
whether  he  is  willing  to  give  up  friendship  to  excite 
compassion.  Pity  and  friendship  are  passions  incom- 
patiole  with  each  other  ;  and  it  is  impossible  that  both 
can  reside  in  any  breast,  for  the  smallest  space,  with- 
out impairing  each  other.  Friendship  is  made  up  of 
esteem  and  pleasure  ;  pity  is  composed  of  sorrow  and 
contempt:  the  mind  may,  for  some  time,  fluctuate 
between  them,  but  it  can  never  entertain  both  at  once. 
In  fact,  pity,  though  it  may  often  relieve,  is  but,  at 
best,  a  short-lived  passion,  and  seldom  afl'ords  distress 


272  ESSAYS. 

more  than  transitory  assistance  ;  with  some  it  scarce 
lasts  from  the  first  impulse  till  the  hand  can  be  put  into 
the  pocket ;  with  others  it  may  continue  for  twice  that 
space  ;  and  on  some  of  extraordinary  sensibility,  1  have 
seen  it  operate  for  half  an  hour  together ;  but  still, 
last  as  it  may,  it  generally  produces  but  beggarly  effects, 
and  where,  from  this  motive,  we  give  five  farthings, 
from  others  we  give  pounds  :  whatever  be  our  feelings 
from  the  first  impulse  of  distress,  when  the  same  dis- 
tress solicits  a  second  time,  we  then  feel  with  dimi- 
nished sensibility  ;  and,  like  the  repetition  of  an  echo, 
every  stroke  becomes  weaker;  till,  at  last,  our  sensa- 
tions lose  all  mixture  of  sorrow,  and  degenerate  into 
downright  contempt. 

These  speculations  bring  to  my  mind  the  fate  of  a 
very  good-natured  fellow  who  is  now  no  more.  He 
was  bred  in  a  counting-house,  and  his  father  dying 
just  as  he  was  out  of  his  time,  left  him  a  handsome 
fortune,  and  many  friends  to  advise  with.  The  re- 
straint in  which  my  friend  had  been  brought  up,  had 
thrown  a  gloom  upon  his  temper,  which  some  re- 
garded as  prudence  ;  and,  from  such  considerations, 
he  had  every  day  repeated  offers  of  friendship.  Such 
as  had  money,  were  ready  to  offer  him  their  assistance 
that  way  ;  and  they  who  had  daughters,  frequently, 
in  the  warmth  of  affection,  advised  him  to  marry.  My 
friend,  however,  was  in  good  circumstances ;  he 
wanted  neither  their  money,  friends,  nor  a  wife  ;  and 
therefore  modestly  declined  their  proposals. 

Some  errors,  however,  in  the  management  of  his 
affairs,  and  several  losses  in  trade,  soon  brought  him  to 
a  different  way  of  tiiinking  ;  and  he  at  last  considered, 
that  it  was  his  best  way  to  let  his  friends  know  that 
their  offers  were  at  length  acceptable.  His  first  ad- 
dress was  to  a  scrivener,  who  had  formerly  made  him 
frequent  offers  of  money  and  friendship,  at  a  time 
when,  perhaps,  he  knew  those  offers  would  have  been 
refused.  As  a  man,  therefore,  confident  of  not  being 
refused,  he  requested  the  use  of  a  hundred  guineas  for 
a  few  days,  as  he  just  then  had  occasion  for  money. 


ESSAYS.  273 

'  And  pray,  sir,'  replied  the  scrivener,  •  do  you  want 
all  this  money  ¥ — '  Want  it,  sir  !'  says  the  other  ;  '  if 
1  did  not  want  it  I  should  not  have  asked  it.' — '  1  am 
sorry  for  that,'  says  the  friend,  '  for  those  who  want 
money  when  they  borrow,  will  always  want  money 
when  they  should  come  to  pay.  To  say  the  truth,  sir, 
money  is  money  now ;  and  I  believe  it  is  all  sunk  in 
the  bottom  of  the  sea,  for  my  part ;  he  that  has  got  a 
little,  is  a  fool  if  he  does  not  keep  what  he  has  got.' 

Not  quite  disconcerted  by  this  refusal,  our  adven- 
turer was  resolved  to  try  another,  who  he  knew  was 
the  very  best  friend  he  had  in  the  world.  The  gentle- 
man whom  he  now  addressed,  received  his  proposal 
with  all  the  affability  that  could  be  expected  from 
generous  friendship.  '  Let  me  see,  you  want  a  hun- 
dred guineas:  and  pray,  dear  Jack,  would  not  fifty 
answer  ?' — '  If  you  have  but  fifty  to  spare,  sir,  I  must 
be  contented.' — '  Fifty  to  spare  !  I  do  not  say  that, 
for  I  believe  I  have  but  twenty  about  me.' — '  Then  I 
must  borrow  the  other  thirty  from  some  other  friend.' 
— '  And  pray,'  replied  the  friend, '  would  it  not  be  the 
best  way  to  borrow  the  whole  money  from  that  other 
friend,  and  then  one  note  will  serve  for  all,  you  know  ? 
You  know,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  need  make  no  cere- 
mony with  me  at  any  time  ;  you  know,  I'm  your 
friend  ;  and  when  you  choose  a  bit  of  dinner  or  so— 
You,  Tom,  see  the  gentleman  down.  You  won't  for- 
get to  dine  with  us  now  and  then.  Your  very  humble 
servant.' 

Distressed,  but  not  discouraged,  at  this  treatment, 
he  was  at  last  resolved  to  find  that  assistance  from 
love,  which  he  could  not  have  from  friendship.  A 
young  lady,  a  distant  relation  by  the  mother's  side, 
had  a  fortune  in  her  own  hands;  and,  as  she  had 
already  made  all  the  advances  that  her  sex's  modesty 
would  permit,  he  made  his  proposal  with  confidence, 
lie  soon,  however,  perceived  that  no  bankrupt  ever 
found  the  fair  one  kmd.  She  had  lately  fallen  deeply 
in  love  with  another,  who  had  more  money,  and  Uie 
whole  neighbourhood  thought  it  would  be  a  match. 
N  2 


274  ESSAYS. 

Every  day  now  began  to  strip  my  poor  friend  of  his 
former  finery  ;  his  clothes  flew,  piece  by  piece,  to  the 
pawnbroker's,  and  he  seemed  at  length  equipped  in 
the  genuine  livery  of  misfortune.  But  still  he  thought 
himself  secure  from  actual  necessity  ;  the  numberless 
invitations  he  had  received  to  dine,  even  after  his  losses, 
were  yet  unanswered  ;  he  was  therefore  now  resolved 
to  accept  of  a  dinner,  because  he  wanted  one  ;  and  in 
this  manner  he  actually  lived  among  his  friends  a 
whole  week,  without  being  openly  affronted.  The  last 
place  I  saw  him  in  was  at  a  reverend  divine's.  He 
had,  as  he  fancied,  just  nicked  the  time  of  dinner,  for 
he  came  in  as  the  cloth  was  laying.  He  took  a  chair, 
without  being  desired,  and  talked  for  some  time  with- 
out being  attended  to.  He  assured  the  company,  that 
nothing  procured  so  good  an  appetite  as  a  walk  in  the 
Park,  where  he  had  been  that  morning.  He  went  on, 
and  praised  the  figure  of  the  damask  table-cloth  ; 
talked  of  a  feast  where  he  had  been  the  day  before, 
but  that  the  venison  was  over-done.  But  all  this  pro- 
cured him  no  invitation  :  finding,  therefore,  the  gen- 
tleman of  the.  house  insensible  to  all  his  fetches,  he 
thought  proper,  at  last,  to  retire,  and  mend  his  appetite 
by  a  second  walk  in  the  Park. 

You  then,  O  ye  beggars  of  my  acquaintance, 
whether  in  rags  or  lace,  whether  in  Kent  street  or  the 
Wall,  whether  at  the  Smyrna  or  St.  Giles's,  might  I 
be  permitted  to  advise  as  a  friend,  never  seem  to  want 
the  favour  which  you  solicit.  Apply  to  every  passion  but 
human  pity  for  redress  :  you  may  find  permanent  relief 
from  vanity,  from  self-interest,  or  from  avarice,  but 
from  compassion  never.  The  very  eloquence  of  a  poor 
man  is  disgusting ;  and  that  mouth  which  is  opened 
even  by  wisdom,  is  seldom  expected  to  close  without 
the  horrors  of  a  petition. 

To  ward  off  the  gripe  of  Poverty,  you  must  pretend 
to  be  a  stranger  to  her,  and  she  will  at  least  use  you 
with  ceremony.  If  you  be  caught  dining  upon  a  half- 
penny porringer  of  peas-soup  and  potatoes,  praise  the 
whoiesomeness  of  your  frugal  repast.     You  may  ob« 


ESSAYS.  275 

eerve  that  Dr.  Cheyne  has  prescribed  peas-broth  for 
the  gravel ;  hint  that  you  are  not  one  of  those  who 
are  always  making  a  deity  of  your  belly.  If,  again, 
you  are  obliged  to  wear  a  flimsy  stuff  in  the  midst  of 
winter,  be  the  first  to  remark,  that  stu-fFs  are  very 
much  worn  at  Paris  ;  or,  if  there  be  found  any  irrepa- 
rable defects  in  any  part  of  your  equipage,  which 
cannot  be  concealed  by  all  the  arts  of  sitting  cross- 
legged,  coaxing,  or  darning,  say,  that  neither  you  nor 
Sir  Samson  Gideon  were  ever  very  fond  of  dress.  If 
you  be  a  philosopher,  hint  that  Plato  or  Seneca  are 
the  tailors  you  choose  to  employ  ;  assure  the  company 
that  man  ought  to  be  content  with  a  bare  covering, 
since  what  now  is  so  much  his  pride,  was  formerly  his 
shame.  In  short,  however  caught,  never  give  out ; 
but  ascribe  to  the  frugality  of  your  disposition  what 
others  might  be  apt  to  attribute  to  the  narrowness  of 
your  circumstances.  To  be  poor,  and  to  seem  poor, 
is  a  certain  method  never  to  rise  ;  pride  in  the  great  is 
hateful;  in  the  wise  it  is  ridiculous;  but  beggarly 
pride  is  a  rational  vanity,  which  1  have  been  taught  to 
applaud  and  excuse. 


ON  GENEROSITY  AND  JUSTICE. 

Lysippus  is  a  man  whose  greatness  of  soul  the  whole 
world  admires.  His  generosity  is  such,  that  it  prevents 
a  demand,  and  saves  the  receiver  the  confusion  of  a 
request.  His  liberality  also  does  not  oblige  more  by 
its  greatness,  than  by  his  inimitable  grace  in  giving. 
Sometimes  he  even  distributes  his  bounties  to  strangers, 
and  has  been  known  to  do  good  offices  to  those  who 
professed  themselves  his  enemies.  All  the  world  are 
unanimous  in  the  praise  of  his  generosity  ;  there  is 
only  one  sort  of  people  who  complain  of  his  conduct. 
Lysippus  docs  not  pay  his  debts. 

It  is  no  difficult  matter  to  account  for  a  conduct  so 
seemingly  incompatible  with  itself.  There  is  greatness 
in  being  generous,  and  there  is  only  simple  justice  in 


=T 


27G  ESSAYS. 

satisfying  creditors.  Generosity  is  the  part  of  a  soul 
raised  above  the  vulgar.  There  is  in  it  something  of 
what  we  admire  in  heroes,  and  praise  with  a  degree  of 
rapture.  Justice,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  mechanic  vir- 
tue, only  fit  for  tradesmen,  and  what  is  practised  by 
every  broker  in  Change-alley. 

In  paying  his  debts  a  man  barely' does  his  duty,  and 
it  is  an  action  attended  with  no  sort  of  glory.  Should 
Lysippus  satisfy  his  creditors,  who  would  be  at  the 
pains  of  telling  it  to  the  world  1  Generosity  is  a  virtue 
of  a  very  different  complexion.  It  is  raised  above 
duty,  and  from  its  elevation  attracts  the  attention  and 
the  praises  of  us  little  mortals  below. 

In  this  manner  do  men  generally  reason  upon  jus- 
tice and  generosity.  The  first  is  despised,  though  a 
virtue  essential  to  "the  good  of  society,  and  the  other 
attracts  our  esteem,  which  too  frequently  proceeds 
from  an  impetuosity  of  temper,  rather  directed  by 
vanity  than  reason.  Lysippus  is  told  that  his  banker 
asks  a  debt  of  forty  pounds,  and  that  a  distressed  ac- 
quaintance petitions  for  the  same  sum.  He  gives  it 
without  hesitating  to  the  latter,  for  he  demands  as  a 
favour  what  the  former  requires  as  a  debt. 

Mankind  in  general  are  not  sufficiently  acquainted 
with  the  import  of  the  word  justice :  it  is  commonly 
believed  to  consist  only  in  a  performance  of  those 
duties  to  which  the  laws  of  society  can  oblige  us.  This 
I  allow  is  sometimes  the  import  of  the  word,  and  in 
this  sense  justice  is  distinguished  from  equity ;  but 
there  is  a  justice  still  more  extensive,  and  which  can 
be  shewn  to  embrace  all  the  virtues  united. 

Justice  may  be  defined,  that  virtue  which  impels  us 
to  give  to  every  person  what  is  his  due.  In  this  ex- 
tended sense  of  the  word,  it  comprehends  the  practice 
of  every  virtue  which  reason  prescribes,  or  society- 
should  expect.  Our  duty  to  our  Maker,  to  each  other, 
and  to  ourselves,  are  fully  answered,  if  we  give  them 
what  we  owe  them.  Thus  justice,  properly  speaking, 
is  the  only  virtue ;  and  all  the  rest  have  their  origin 
in  it. 


ESSAYS.  277 

The  qualities  of  candour,  fortitude,  charity,  and 
generosity,  for  instance,  are  not  in  their  own  natura 
virtues ;  and  if  ever  they  deserve  the  title,  it  is  owing 
only  to  justice,  which  impels  and  directs  them.  With- 
out such  a  moderator,  candour  might  become  indis- 
cretion, fortitude  obstinacy,  charity  imprudence,  and 
generosity  mistaken  profusion. 

A  disinterested  action,  if  it  be  not  conducted  by 
justice,  is,  at  best,  indifferent  in  its  nature,  and  not 
unfrequently  even  turns  to  vice.  The  expenses  of 
society,  of  presents,  of  entertainments,  and  the  other 
helps  to  cheerfulness,  are  actions  merely  indifferent, 
when  not  repugnant  to  a  better  method  of  disposing  of 
our  superfluities  ;  but  they  become  vicious  when  they 
obstruct  or  exhaust  our  abilities  from  a  more  virtuous 
disposition  of  o»r  circumstances. 

True  generosity  is  a  duty  as  indispensably  necessary 
as  those  imposed  upon  us  by  law.  It  is  a  rule  im- 
posed on  us  by  reason,  which  should  be  the  sovereign 
law  of  a  rational  being.  But  this  generosity  does  not 
consist  in  obeying  every  impulse  of  humanity,  in  fol- 
lowing blind  passion  for  our  guide,  and  impairing  our 
circumstances  by  present  benefactions,  so  as  to  render 
us  incapable  of  future  ones. 

Misers  are  generally  characterized  as  men  without 
honour,  or  without  humanity,  who  live  only  to  accu- 
mulate, and  to  this  passion  sacrifice  every  other  happi- 
ness. They  have  been  described  as  madmen,  who, 
in  the  midst  of  abundance,  banish  every  pleasure,  and 
make,  from  imaginary  wants,  real  necessities.  But 
few,  very  few,  correspond  to  this  exaggerated  picture  ; 
and,  perhaps,  there  is  not  one  in  whom  all  these  cir- 
cumstances are  found  united.  Instead  of  this,  we 
find  the  sober  and  the  industrious  branded  by  the  vain 
and  the  idle  with  this  odious  appellation  ;  men  who, 
by  frugality  and  labour,  raise  themselves  above  their 
equals,  and  contribute  their  share  of  industry  to  the 
common  stock. 

Whatever  the  vain  or  the  ignorant  may  say,  well 
were  it  for  society,  had  we  more  of  these  characters 


278 


ESSAYS. 


amongst  us.  In  general  these  close  men  are  found  at 
last  the  true  benefactors  of  society.  With  an  avaricious 
man  we  seldom  lose  in  our  dealings,  but  too  frequently 
in  our  commerce  with  prodigality. 

A  French  priest,  whose  name  was  Godinot,  went 
for  a  long  time  by  the  name  of  the  Griper.  He  re- 
fused to  relieve  the  most  apparent  wretchedness,  and, 
by  a  skilful  management  of  his  vineyard,  had  the  good 
fortune  to  acquire  immense  sums  of  money.  The 
inhabitants  of  Rheims,  who  were  his  fellow-citizens, 
detested  him ;  and  the  populace,  who  seldom  love  a 
miser,  wherever  he  went,  followed  him  with  shouts  of 
contempt.  He  still,  however,  continued  his  former 
simplicity  of  life,  his  amazing  and  unremitted  frugality. 
He  had  long  perceived  the  wants  of  the  poor  in  the 
city,  particularly  in  having  no  water, but  what  they 
were  obliged  to  buy  at  an  advanced  price  ;  wherefore, 
that  whole  fortune  which  he  had  been  amassing,  he 
laid  out  in  an  aqueduct,  by  which  he  did  the  poor 
more  useful  and  lasting  service,  than  if  he  had  distri- 
buted his  whole  income  in  charity  every  day  at  his 
door. 

Among  men  long  conversant  with  books,  we  too 
frequently  find  those  misplaced  virtues,  of  which  I 
have  been  now  complaining.  We  find  the  studious 
animated  with  a  strong  passion  for  the  great  virtues, 
as  they  are  mistakingly  called,  and  utterly  forgetful 
of  the  ordinary  ones.  The  declamations  of  philosophy 
are  generally  rather  exhausted  on  those  supererogatory 
duties,  than  on  such  as  are  indispensably  necessary. 
A  man,  therefore,  who  has  taken  his  ideas  of  mankind 
from  study  alone,  generally  comes  into  the  world  with 
a  heart  melting  at  every  fictitious  distress.  Thus  he 
is  induced,  by  misplaced  liberality,  to  put  himself  into 
the  indigent  circumstances  of  the  person  he  relieves. 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  the  advice  of  one 
of  the  ancients,  to  a  young  man  whom  he  saw  giving 
away  all  his  substance  to  pretended  distress,  'it  is 
possible,  that  the  person  you  relieve  may  be  an  honest 
man ;  and   I  know  that  you,  who  relieve   him.  are 


ESSAYS.  279 

such.  You  see  then,  by  your  generosity,  that  you  rob 
a  man  who  is  certainly  deserving,  to  bestow  it  on  one 
who  may  possibly  be  a  rogue ;  and,  while  you  are 
unjust  in  rewarding  uncertain  merit,  you  are  doubly 
guilty  by  stripping  yourself.' 


ON  THE  EDUCATION  OF  YOUTH. 

As  few  subjects  are  more  interesting  to  society,  so  few 
have  been  more  frequently  written  upon,  than  the  edu- 
cation of  youth.  Yet  it  is  a  little  surprising  that  it 
has  been  treated  almost  by  all  in  a  declamatory  man- 
ner. They  have  insisted  largely  on  the  advantages 
that  result  from  it,  both  to  individuals  and  io  society; 
and  have  expatiated  in  the  praise  of  what  none  have 
ever  been  so  hardy  as  to  call  in  question. 

Instead  of  giving  us  fine  but  empty  harangues  upon 
this  subject,  instead  of  indulging  each  his  particular 
and  whimsical  systems,  it  had  been  much  better  if  the 
writers  on  this  subject  had  treated  it  in  a  more  scien- 
tific manner,  repressed  all  the  sallies  of  imagination, 
and  given  us  the  result  of  their  observations  with  di- 
dactic simplicity.  Upon  this  subject,  the  smallest 
errors  are  of  the  most  dangerous  consequence,  and  the 
author  should  venture  the  imputation  of  stupidity  upon 
a  topic,  where  his  slightest  deviations  may  tend  to  in- 
jure the  rising  generation.  However,  such  are  the 
whimsical  and  erroneous  productions  written  upon  this 
subject.  Their  authors  have  studied  to  be  uncom- 
mon, not  to  be  just ;  and  at  present,  we  want  a  trea- 
tise upon  education,  not  to  tell  us  any  thing  new,  but 
to  explode  the  errors  which  have  been  introduced  by 
the  admirers  of  novelty.  It  is  in  this  manner  books  be- 
come numerous  ;  a  desire  of  novelty  produces  a  book, 
and  other  books  are  required  to  destroy  the  former. 

I  shall,  therefore,  throw  out  a  few  thoughts  upon 
this  subject,  which,  though  known,  have  not  been  at- 
tended to  by  others  ;  and  shall  dismi-s  all  attempts  to 
plcjs:;,  while  1  study  only  instruction. 


280  ESSAYS. 

The  manner  >n  winch  our  youth  of  London  are  at 
present  educated,  is,  some  in  free-schools  in  the  city, 
but  the  far  greater  number  in  boarding-schools  about 
town.  The  parent  justly  consults  the  health  of  his 
child,  and  finds  an  education  in  the  country  tends  to 
promote  this,  much  more  than  a  continuance  in  town. 
Thus  far  he  is  right;  if  there  were  a  possibility  of 
having  even  our  free-schools  kept  a  little  out  of  town, 
it  would  certainly  conduce  to  the  health  and  vigour 
of,  perhaps,  the  mind  as  well  as  the  body.  It  may  be 
thought  whimsical,  but  it  is  truth  ;  I  have  found  by 
experience,  that  they,  who  have  spent  all  their  lives 
in  cities,  contract  not  only  an  effeminacy  of  habit,  but 
even  of  thinking. 

But  when  I  have  said  that  the  boarding-schools  are 
preferable  to  free-schools,  as  being  in  the  country,  this 
is  certainly  the  only  advantage  I  can  allow  them  : 
otherwise  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  the  ignorance  of 
those  who  take  upon  them  the  important  trust  of  edu- 
cation. Is  any  man  unfit  for  any  of  the  professions, 
he  finds  his  last  resource  in  setting  up  a  school.  Do 
any  become  bankrupts  in  trade,  they  still  set  up  a 
boarding-school,  and  drive  a  trade  this  way,  when  all 
others  fail ;  nay,  I  have  been  told  of  butchers  and 
barbers,  who  have  turned  schoolmasters  ;  and,  more 
surprising  still,  made  fortunes  in  their  new  profession. 

Could  we  think  ourselves  in  a  country  of  civilized 
people,  could  it  be  conceived  that  we  have  any  regard 
for  posterity,  when  such  are  permitted  to  take  the 
charge  of  the  morals,  genius,  and  health,  of  those  dear 
little  pledges,  who  may  one  day  be  the  guardians  of 
the  liberties  of  Europe  ;  and  who  may  serve  as  the 
honour  and  bulwark  of  their  aged  parents  :  The  care 
of  our  children,  is  it  below  the  state  1  Is  it  fit  to  in-* 
dulge  the  caprice  of  the  ignorant  with  the  disposal  of 
their  children  in  this  particular  ?  For  the  state  to  take 
the  charge  of  all  its  children,  as  in  Persia  or  Sparta, 
might  at  present  be  inconvenient ;  but  surely,  with 
great  ease,  it  might  cast  an  eye  to  their  instructors.  Of 
all  professions  in  society,  I  do  not  know  a  more  useful, 


ESSAYS. 


281 


or  a  more  honourable  one,  than  a  schoolmaster  ;  at 
the  same  time  that  I  do  not  see  any  more  generally 
despised,  or  whose  talents  are  so  ill  rewarded. 

Were  the  salaries  of  schoolmasters  to  be  augmented 
from  a  diminution  of  useless  sinecures,  how  might  it 
tuin  to  the  advantage  of  this  people  !  a  people  whom, 
wishout  flattery,  I  may,  in  other  respects,  term  the 
wisest  and  greatest  upon  earth.  But  while  I  would 
reward  the  deserving,  I  would  dismiss  those  utterly 
unqualified  for  their  employment :  in  short,  I  would 
make  the  business  of  a  schoolmaster  every  way  more 
respectable  by  increasing  their  salaries,  and  admitting 
only  men  of  proper  abilities. 

It  is  true  we  have  schoolmasters  appointed,  and  they 
have  some  small  salaries  ;  but  where  at  present  there 
is  only  one  schoolmaster  appointed,  there  should  at 
least  be  two;  and  wherever  the  salary  is  at  present 
twenty  pounds,  it  should  be  a  hundred.  Do  we  give 
immoderate  benefices  to  those  who  instruct  ourselves, 
and  shall  we  deny  even  subsistence  to  those  who  in- 
struct our  children  ?  Every  member  of  society  should 
be  paid  in  proportion  as  he  is  necessary ;  and  1  will 
be  bold  enough  to  say,  that  schoolmasters  in  a  state  are 
more  necessary  than  clergymen,  as  children  stand  in 
more  need  of  instruction  than  their  parents. 

Hut  instead  of  this,  as  I  have  already  observed,  we 
send  them  to  board  in  the  country,  to  the  most  igno- 
rant set  of  men  that  can  be  imagined.  ]5ut,  lest  the 
ignorance  of  the  master  be  not  sufficient,  the  child  is 
generally  consigned  to  the  usher.  This  is  commonly 
some  poor  needy  animal,  little  superior  to  a  footman 
either  in  learning  or  spirit,  invited  to  his  place  by  an 
advertisement,  and  kept  there  merely  from  his  being 
of  a  complying  disposition,  and  making  the  children 
fond  of  him.  '  You  give  your  child  to  be  educated  to 
a  slave,'  says  a  philosopher  to  a  rich  man  ;  '  instead 
of  one  slave  you  will  then  have  two.' 

It  were  well,  however,  if  parents  upon  fixing  their 
children  in  one  of  these  houses,  would  examine  the 
abilities  of  the  usher,  as  well  as  the  master  ;  for  what- 


282 


ICSSAVS. 


ever  they  are  told  to  the  contrary,  the  usher  is  gene- 
rally the  person  most  employed  in  their  education. 
If,  then,  a  gentleman,  upon  putting  his  son  to  one  of 
these  houses,  sees  the  usher  disregarded  by  the  master 
he  may  depend  upon  it,  that  he  is  equally  disregarded 
by  the  boys;  the  truth  is,  in  spite  of  all  their  endea- 
vours to  please,  they  are  generally  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  school.  Every  trick  is  played  upon  the  usher.- 
the  oddity  of  his  manners,  his  dress,  or  his  language, 
are  a  fund  of  eternal  ridicule  ;  the  mastei  himself,  now 
and  then,  cannot  avoid  joining  in  the  laugh  ;  and  the 
poor  wretch,  eternally  resenting  this  ill-usuage,  seems 
to  live  in  a  state  of  war  with  all  the  family.  This  is 
a  very  proper  person,  is  it  not,  to  give  children  a  relish 
for  learning?  They  must  esteem  learning  very  much, 
when  they  see  its  professors  used  with  such  little  cere- 
mony !  If  the  usher  be  despised,  the  father  may  be 
assured  that  his  child  will  never  be  properly  in- 
structed. 

But  let  me  suppose  that  there  are  some  schools 
without  these  inconveniences,  where  the  masters  and 
ushers  are  men  of  learning,  reputation,  and  assiduity. 
If  theie  are  to  be  found  such,  they  cannot  be  prized 
in  a  state  sufficiently.  A  boy  will  learn  more  true 
wisdom  in  a  public  school  in  a  year,  than  by  private 
education  in  five.  It  is  not  from  masters,  but  from 
their  equals,  youth  learn  a  knowledge  of  the  world  ; 
the  little  tricks  they  play  each  other,  the  punishment 
that  frequently  attends  the  commission,  is  a  just  pic- 
ture of  the  great  world  ;  and  all  the  ways  of  men  are 
practised  in  a  public  school  in  miniature.  It  is  true, 
a  child  is  early  made  acquainted  with  some  vices  in 
a  school  ;  but  it  is  better  to  know  these  when  a  boy, 
than  be  first  taught  them  when  a  man  ;  for  their  no- 
velty then  may  have  irresistible  charms. 

In  a  public  education  boys  early  learn  temperance  ; 
and  if  the  parents  and  friends  would  give  them  less 
money  upon  their  usual  visits,  it  would  be  much  to 
their  advantage;  since  it  may  justly  be  said,  that  a 
great  part  of  their  disorders  arise  from  surfeit,  *  plus 


ESSAYS.  283 

occidit  gula  quam  gladius.'  And  now  I  am  come  to 
the  article  of  health,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  observe, 
that  Mr.  Locke  and  some  others  have  advised  that 
children  should  be  inured  to  cold,  to  fatigue,  and 
hardship,  from  their  youth  ;  but  Mr.  Locke  was  but  an 
indifferent  physician.  Habit,  I  grant,  has  great  in- 
fluence over  our  constitutions  ;  but  we  have  not  precise 
ideas  upon  this  subject. 

We  know  that  among  savages,  and  even  among  our 
peasants,  there  are  found  children  born  with  such 
constitutions,  that  they  cross  rivers  by  swimming,  en- 
dure cold,  thirst,  hunger,  and  want  of  sleep,  to  a  sur- 
prising degree  ;  that  when  they  happen  to  fall  sick, 
they  are  cured  without  the  help  of  medicine,  by  nature 
alone.  Such  examples  are  adduced  to  persuade  us  to 
imitate  their  manner  of  education,  and  accustom  our- 
selves betimes  to  support  the  same  fatigues.  But  had 
Jhese  gentlemen  considered  first  how  many  lives  are 
lost  in  this  ascetic  practice  ;  had  they  considered,  that 
those  savages  and  peasants  are  generally  not  so  long- 
lived  as  they  who  have  led  a  more  indolent  life  ;  that 
the  more  laborious  the  life  is,  the  less  populous  is  the 
country  ;  had  they  considered,  that  what  physicians 
call  the  '  stamina  vitas,'  by  fatigue  and  labour  be- 
come rigid,  and  thus  anticipate  old  age  ;  that  the 
number  who  survive  those  rude  trials,  bears  no  pro- 
portion to  those  who  die  in  the  experiment;  had  these 
things  been  properly  considered,  they  would  not  have 
thus  extolled  an  education  begun  in  fatigue  and  hard- 
ships. Peter  the  Great,  willing  to  inure  the  children 
of  his  seamen  to  a  life  of  hardship,  ordered  that  they 
should  only  drink  sea-water ;  but  they  unfortunately 
all  died  under  the  trial. 

But  while  I  would  exclude  all  unnecessary  labours, 
yetstill  1  would  recommend  temperance  in  the  highest 
degree.  No  luxurious  dishes  with  high  seasoning, 
nothing  given  children  to  force  an  appetite;  as  little 
sugared  or  salted  provisions  as  possible,  though  ever  so 
pleasing  ;  but  milk,  morning  and  night,  should  be 
.heir  constant  food.    This  diet  would  make  them  more 


28-1 


ESSAYS. 


healthy  than  any  of  those  slops  that  are  usual  1}'  cooked 
by  the  mistress  of  a  boarding-school ;  besides,  it  cor- 
rects any  consumptive  habits,  not  unfrequently  found 
amongst  the  children  of  city  parents. 

As  boys  should  be  educated  with  temperance,  so 
the  first  greatest  lesson  that  should  be  taught  them  is 
to  admire  frugality.  It  is  by  the  exercise  of  this  virtue 
alone,  they  can  ever  expect  to  be  useful  members  of 
society.  It  is  true,  lectures  continually  repeated  upon 
this  subject,  may  make  some  boys,  when  they  grow 
up,  run  into  an  extreme,  and  become  misers  ;  but  it 
were  well,  had  we  more  misers  than  we  have  amongst 
us.  1  know  few  characters  more  useful  in  society  ; 
for  a  man's  having  a  larger  or  smaller  share  of  money 
lying  useless  by  him,  no  way  injures  the  common- 
wealth ;  since,  should  every  miser  now  exhaust  his 
stores,  this  might  make  gold  more  plenty,  but  it  would 
not  increase  the  commodities  or  pleasures  of  life  ;  they 
would  still  remain  as  they  are  at  present :  it  matters 
not,  therefore,  whether  men  are  misers  or  not,  if  they 
be  only  frugal,  laborious,  and  fill  the  station  they  have 
chosen.  If  they  deny  themselves  the  necessaries  of 
life,  society  is  no  way  injured  by  their  folly. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  romances,  which  praise  young 
men  of  spirit,  who  go  through  a  variety  of  adventures, 
and  at  last  conclude  a  life  of  dissipation,  folly,  and 
extravagauce,  in  riches  and  matrimony,  there  should 
be  some  men  of  wit  employed  to  compose  books  that 
might  equally  interest  the  passions  of  our  youth,  where 
such  a  one  might  be  praised  for  having  resisted  allure- 
ments when  young,  and  how  he,  at  last,  became  lord 
mayor  ;  how  he  was  married  to  a  lady  of  great  sense, 
fortune,  and  beauty  :  to  be  as  explicit  as  possible,  the 
old  story  of  VVhitfington,  were  his  cat  left  out,  might 
be  more  serviceable  to  the  tender  mind,  than  either 
Tom  Jones,  Joseph  Andrews,  or  a  hundred  others, 
where  frugality  is  the  only  good  quality  the  hero  is 
not  possessed  of.  Were  our  schoolmasters,  if  any  of 
them  have  sense  enough  to  draw  up  such  a  work,  thus 
employed,  it  would  be  much  more  serviceable  to  their 


ESSAYS.  283 

pupils,  than  all  the  grammars  and  dictionaries  they 
may  publish  these  ten  years. 

Children  shouid  early  be  instructed  in  the  arts  from 
which  they  may  afterward  draw  the  greatest  advan- 
tages. When  the  wonders  of  nature  are  never  ex- 
posed to  our  view,  we  have  no  great  desire  to  become 
acquainted  with  those  parts  of  learning  which  pretend 
to  account  for  the  phenomena.  One  of  the  ancients 
complains,  that  as  soon  as  young  men  have  left  school, 
and  are  obliged  to  converse'in  the  world,  they  fancy 
themselves  transported  into  a  new  region.  '  Ut,  cum 
in  forum  venerint,  existiment  se  in  alium  terrarum 
orbem  delatos.'  We  should  early,  therefore,  instruct 
them  in  the  experiments,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  of 
knowledge,  and  leave  to  maturer  age  the  accounting 
for  the  causes.  But,  instead  of  that,  when  boys  begin 
natural  philosophy  in  colleges,  they  have  not  the  least 
curiosity  for  those  parts  of  the  science  which  are  pro- 
posed for  their  instruction  ;  they  have  never  before 
seen  the  phenomena,  and  consequently  have  no  curi- 
osity to  learn  the  reasons.  Might  natural  philosophy, 
therefore,  be  made  their  pastime  in  school,  by  this 
means  it  would  in  college  become  their  amusement. 

In  several  of  the  machines  now  in  use,  there  would 
be  ample  field  both  for  instruction  and  amusement; 
the  different  sorts  of  the  phosphorus,  the  artificial 
pyrites,  magnetism,  electricity,  the  experiments  upon 
the  rarefaction  and  weight  of  the  air,  and  those  upon 
elastic  bodies,  might  employ  their  idle  hours;  and 
none  should  be  called  from  play  to  see  such  experi- 
ments but  such  as  thought  proper.  At  first,  then,  it 
would  be  sufficient  if  the  instruments,  and  the  effects 
ot  their  combination,  were  only  shewn  ;  the  causes 
should  be  deterred  to  a  maturer  age,  or  to  those  times 
when  natural  curiosity  prompts  us  to  discover  the 
wonders  of  nature.  Man  is  placed  in  this  world  as  a 
spectator;  when  he  is  tired  of  wondering  at  all  the 
novelties  about  him,  and  not  till  then,  does  he  desire 
to  lie  made  acquainted  with  the  causes  that  create 
those  wonders. 

What  I  have  observed  with  regard  to  natural  phi- 


286  ESSAYS, 

losophy,  I  would  extend  to  every  other  science  what- 
soever. We  should  teach  them  as  many  of  the  facts 
as  were  possible,  and  defer  the  causes  until  they 
seemed  of  themselves  desirous  of  knowing  them.  A 
mind  thus  leaving  school,  stored  with  all  the  simple 
experiences  of  science,  would  be  the  fittest  in  the 
world  for  the  college-course  ;  and,  though  such  a 
youth  might  not  appear  so  bright  or  so  talkative,  as 
those  who  had  learned  the  real  principles  and  causes 
of  some  of  the  sciences,  yet  he  would  make  a  wiser 
man,  and  would  retain  a  more  lasting  passion  for 
letters,  than  he  who  was  early  burdened  with  the  dis- 
agreeable institution  of  effect  and  cause. 

In  history,  such  stories  alone  should  be  laid  before 
them  as  might  catch  the  imagination  ;  instead  of  this, 
they  are  too  frequently  obliged  to  toil  through  the 
four  empires,  as  they  are  called,  where  their  memories 
are  burdened  by  a  number  of  disgusting  names,  tha' 
destroy  all  their  future  relish  for  our  best  historians, 
who  may  be  termed  the  truest  teachers  of  wisdom. 

Every  species  of  flattery  should  be  carefully  avoided ; 
a  boy  who  happens  to  say  a  sprightly  thing  is  gene- 
rally applauded  so  much,  that  he  sometimes  continues 
a  coxcomb  all  his  life  after.  He  is  reputed  a  wit  at 
fourteen,  and  becomes  a  blockhead  at  twenty.  Nurses, 
footmen,  and  such,  should  therefore  be  driven  away 
as  much  as  possible.  I  was  even  going  to  add,  that 
the  mother  herself  should  stifle  her  pleasure  or  her 
vanity,  when  little  master  happens  to  say  a  good  or  a 
smart  thing.  Those  modest,  lubberly  boys,  who  seem 
to  want  spirit,  generally  go  through  their  business 
with  more  ease  to  themselves,  and  more  satisfaction  to 
their  instructors. 

There  has,  of  late,  a  gentleman  appeared,  who 
thinks  the  study  of  rhetoric  essential  to  a  perfect 
education.  That  bold  male  eloquence,  which  often, 
without  pleasing,  convinces,  is  generally  destroyed  by 
such  institutions.  Convincing  eloquence  is  infinitely 
more  serviceable  to  its  possessor,  than  the  most  florid 
harangue,  or  the    most  pathetic  tones,  that  can  be 


ESSAYS.  287 

imagined  ;  and  the  man  who  is  thoroughly  convinced 
himself,  who  understands  his  subject,  and  the  lan- 
guage he  speaks  in,  will  be  more  apt  to  silence  oppo- 
sition, than  he  who  studies  the  force  of  his  periods, 
and  fills  our  ears  with  sounds,  while  our  minds  are 
destitute  of  conviction. 

It  was  reckoned  the  fault  of  the  orators  at  the  de- 
cline of  the  Roman  empire,  when  they  had  been  long 
instructed  by  rhetoricians,  that  their  periods  were  so 
harmonious,  as  that  they  could  be  sung  as  well  as 
spoken.  What  a  ridiculous  figure  must  one  of  these 
gentlemen  cut,  thus  measuring  syllables,  and  weighing 
words,  when  he  should  plead  the  cause  of  his  client ! 
Two  architects  were  once  candidates  for  the  building 
a  certain  temple  at  Athens;  the  first  harangued  the 
crowd  very  learnedly  upon  the  different  orders  of  ar- 
chitecture, and  shewed  them  in  what  manner  the 
temple  should  be  built;  the  other,  who  got  up  after 
him,  only  observed,  that  what  his  brother  had  spoken 
he  could  do  ;  ami  thus  he  at  once  gained  his  cause. 

To  teach  men  to  be  orators,  is  little  less  than  to 
teach  them  to  be  poets  ;  and  for  my  part,  I  should 
have  too  great  a  regard  for  my  child,  to  wish  him  a 
manor  only  in  a  bookseller's  shop. 

Another  passion  which  the  present  age  is  apt  to  run 
into,  is  to  make  children  learn  all  things  ;  the  lan- 
guages, the  sciences,  music,  the  exercises,  and  paint- 
ing. Thus  the  child  soon  becomes  a  talker  in  all,  but 
a  master  in  none.  He  thus  acquires  a  superficial 
fondness  for  every  thing,  and  only  shews  his  ignorance 
when  he  attempts  to  exhibit  his  skill. 

As  1  deliver  my  thoughts  without  method,  or  con- 
nexion, so  the  reader  must  not  be  surprised  to  find 
me  once  more  addressing  schoolmasters  on  the  present 
method  of  teaching  the  learned  languages,  which  ip 
commonly  by  literal  translations.  1  would  ask  such, 
if  they  were  to  travel  a  journey,  whether  those  parts  of 
the  road  in  which  they  found  the  greatest  difficulties, 
would  not  be  the  most  strongly  remembered  1  Boys 
who,  if  1  may  continue  the  allusion,  gallop  through 


288 


ESSAYS. 


one  of  the  ancients  with  the  assistance  of  a  translation, 
can  have  but  a  very  slight  acquaintance  either  with 
the  author  or  his  language.  It  is  by  the  exercise  of 
the  mind  alone  that  a  language  is  learned  ;  but  a  literal 
translation  on  the  opposite  page,  leaves  no  exercise 
for  the  memory  at  all.  The  boy  will  not  be  at  the 
fatigue  of  remembering,  when  his  doubts  are  at  once 
satisfied  by  a  glance  of  the  eye  ;  whereas,  were  every 
word  to  be  sought  from  a  dictionary,  the  learner 
would  attempt  to  remember  them,  to  save  himself  the 
trouble  of  looking  out  for  them  for  the  future. 

To  continue  in  the  same  pedantic  strain,  of  all  the 
various  grammars  nowtaught  in  theschools  about  town, 
1  would  recommend  only  the  old  common  one.  1  have 
forgot  whether  Lily's,  or  an  emendation  of  him.  The 
others  may  be  improvements  ;  but  such  improvements 
seem  to  me  only  mere  grammatical  niceties,  no  way 
influencing  the  learner  ;  but  perhaps  loading  him  with 
subtilties,  which,  at  a  proper  age,  he  must  be  at  some 
pains  to  forget. 

Whatever  pains  a  master  may  take  to  make  the 
learning  of  the  languages  agreeable  to  his  pupil,  he 
may  depend  upon  it,  it  will  be  at  first  extremely  un- 
pleasant. The  rudiments  of  every  language,  therefore, 
must  be  given  as  a  task,  not  as  an  amusement.  Attempt- 
ing to  deceive  children  into  instruction  of  this  kind,  is 
only  deceiving  ourselves  ;  and  I  know  no  passion  ca- 
pable of  conquering  a  child's  natural  laziness  but  fear. 
Solomon  has  said  it  before  me  ;  nor  is  there  any  more 
certain,  though  perhaps  more  disagreeable  truth,  than 
the  proverb  in  verse,  too  well  known  to  repeat  on  the 
present  occasion.  It  is  very  probable  that  parents  are 
told  of  some  masters  who  never  use  the  rod,  and  con- 
sequently are  thought  the  properest  instructors  for 
their  children  ;  but,  though  tenderness  is  a  requisite 
quality  in  an  instructor,  yet  there  is  too  often  the  truest 
tenderness  in  well-timed  correction. 

Some  have  justly  observed,  that  all  passions  should 
be  banished  on  this  terrible  occasion  ;  but  I  know  not 
how,  there  is  a  frailty  attending  human  nature  that 


ESSAYS. 


289 


few  masters  are  able  to  keep  their  temper  whilst  they 
correct.  I  knew  a  good-natured  man,  who  was  sen- 
sible of  his  own  weakness  in  this  respect,  and  conse- 
quently had  recourse  to  the  following  expedient  to 
prevent  his  passions  from  being  engaged,  yet  at  the 
same  time  administer  justice  with  impartiality.  When- 
ever any  of  his  pupils  committed  a  fault,  he  summoned 
a  jury  of  his  peers,  I  mean  of  the  boys  of  his  own  or 
the  next  classes  to  him  :  his  accusers  stood  forth  ;  he 
had  liberty  of  pleading  in  his  own  defence,  and  one  or 
two  more  had  the  liberty  of  pleading  against  him ; 
when  found  guilty  by  the  pannel,  he  was  consigned  to 
the  footman,  who  attended  in  the  house,  and  had  pre- 
vious orders  to  punish,  but  with  lenity.  By  this  means 
the  master  took  off  the  odium  of  punishment  fnm 
himself  ;  and  the  footman,  between  whom  and  the  bojs 
there  could  not  be  even  the  slightest  intimacy,  was 
placed  in  such  a  light  as  to  be  shunned  by  every  boy 
in  the  school. 


ON  THE  VERSATILITY  OF  POPULAR  FAVOUR. 

An  alehouse-keeper,  near  Islington,  who  had  long 
lived  at  the  sign  of  the  French  King,  upon  the  com- 
mencement of  the  last  war  with  France,  pulled  down 
his  old  sign,  and  put  up  that  of  the  Queen  of  Hun- 
gary. Under  the  influence  of  her  red  face  and  golden 
sceptre,  he  continued  to  sell  ale,  till  she  was  no  longer 
the  favourite  of  his  customers;  he  changed  her  there- 
fore, some  time  ago,  for  the  King  of  Prussia  ;  who 
may  probably  be  changed  in  turn,  for  the  next  great 
man  that  shall  be  set  up  for  vulgar  admiration. 

Our  publican,  in  this,  imitates  the  great  exactly; 
who  deal  out  their  figures,  ane  after  the  other,  to  the 
gazing  crowd.  When  we  have  sufficiently  wondered 
at  one,  that  is  taken  in,  and  another  exhibited  in  its 
room,  which  seldom  holds  its  station  long;  for  the  mob 
are  ever  pleased  with  variety. 

I  must  own,  I  have  such  an  indifferent  opinion  of 
O 


290  ESSAYS. 

the  vulgar,  that  I  am  ever  led  to  suspect  that  merit 
which  raises  their  shout ;  at  least,  I  am  certain  to  find 
those  great,  and  sometimes  good  men,  who  find  satis- 
faction in  such  acclamations,  made  worse  by  it;  and 
history  has  too  frequently  taught  me,  that  the  head 
which  has  grown  this  day  giddy  with  the  roar  of  the 
million,  has  the  very  next  been  fixed  upon  a  pole. 

As  Alexander  VI.  was  entering  n  little  town  in  ths 
neighbourhood  of  Rome,  which  had  been  just  evacu- 
ated by  the  enemy,  he  perceived  the  townsmen  busy- 
in  the  market-place  in  pulling  down  from  a  gibbet  a 
figure  which  had  been  designed  to  represent  himself. 
There  were  also  some  knocking  down  a  neighbouring 
statue  of  one  of  the  Orsini  fami'y,  with  whom  he  was 
at  war,  in  order  to  put  Alexander's  effigy  in  its  place. 
It  is  possible  a  man  who  knew  less  of  the  world  would 
have  condemned  the  adulation  of  those  barefaced  flat- 
terers ;  but  Alexander  seemed  pleased  at  their  zeal, 
and  turning  to  Borgia,  his  son,  said  with  a  smile; 
'  Vides,  mi  fill,  quam  leve  discrimen  patibulum  inter 
et  statuam  : — You  see,  my  son,  the  small  difference 
between  a  gibbet  and  a  statue.'  If  the  great  could  be 
taught  any  lesson,  this  might  serve  to  teach  them  upon 
how  weak  a  foundation  their  glory  stands,  which  is 
built  upon  popular  applause  ;  for  as  such  praise  what 
seems  like  merit,  they  as  quickly  condemn  what  his 
only  the  appearance  of  guilt. 

Popular  glory  is  a  perfect  coquet ;  her  lovers  must 
toil,  feel  every  inquietude,  indulge  every  caorice ; 
and,  perhaps,  at  last,  be  jilted  into  the  bargain.  True 
glory ;  on  the  other  hand,  resembles  a  woman  of  sense  : 
her  admirers  must  play  no  tricks  ;  they  feel  no  great 
anxiety,  for  they  are  sure,  in  the  end,  of  b( jing  rewarded 
in  proportion  to  their  merit.  When  Swift  used  lo 
appear  in  public,  he  generally  had  the  mob  shouting 
in  his  train.  '  Pox  take  these  fools,'  lie  would  s:iv  ; 
'  how  much  joy  might  all  this  bawling  give  my  lord 
mayor !" 

We  have  seen  those  virtues  which  have,  while  living, 
retired  from  the  public  eye,  generally  transmitted  to 


ESSAYS.  291 

posterity  as  the  truest  objects  of  admiration  and  praise 
Perhaps  the  character  of  the  late  Duke  of  Marlbo- 
rough may  one  day  be  set  up,  even  above  that  of  his 
more  talked-of  predecessor  ;  since  an  assemblage  of  all 
the  mild  and  amiable  virtues  are  far  superior  to  those 
vulgarly  called  the  great  ones.  I  must  be  pardoned 
for  this  short  tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  man,  who, 
while  living,  would  as  much  detest  to  receive  any 
thing  that  wore  the  appearance  of  flattery,  as  I  should 
to  offer  it. 

I  know  not  how  to  turn  so  trite  a  subject  out  of  the 
beaten  road  of  common-pkice,  except  by  illustrating 
it  rather  by  the  assistance  of  my  metnory  than  judg- 
ment ;  and,  instead  of  making  reflections,  by  telling 
a  story. 

A  Chinese  who  had  long  studied  the  works  of  Con- 
fucius, who  knew  the  characters  of  fourteen  thousand 
words,  and  could  read  a  great  part  of  every  book  that 
came  in  his  way,  ouce  took  it  into  his  head  to  travel 
into  Europe,  and  observe  the  customs  of  a  people 
whom  he  thought  not  very  much  inferior,  even  to  his 
own  countrymen,  in  the  arts  of  refining  upon  every  plea- 
sure. Upon  his  arrival  at  Amsterdam,  his  passion  foi 
letters  naturally  led  him  into  a  bookseller's  shop  ;  and, 
as  he  could  speak  a  little  Dutch,  he  civilly  asked  the 
bookseller  for  the  works  of  the  immortal  Xixofou.  The 
bookseller  assured  him  he  had  never  heard  the  book 
mentioned  before.  '  What!  have  you  never  heard 
of  that  immortal  poet'?'  returned  the  other,  much 
surprised ;  '  that  light  of  the  eyes,  that  favourite  of 
kings,  that  rose  of  perfection!  I  suppose  you  know 
nothing  of  the  immortal  Fipsihihi,  second  cousin  to 
the  uiooaV  '  ^Nothing  at  all,  indeed,  sir,'  returned 
the  other.  'Alas!'  cries  our  traveller,  'to  what 
purpose,  then,  has  one  of  these  fasted  to  death,  and 
the  other  offered  himself  up  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  Tartar 
enemy,  to  gain  a  renown  which  has  never  travelled 
beyond  the  precincts  of  China  V 

There  is  scarce  a  village  in  Europe,  and  not  one 
university,  that  is  not  thus  furnished  with  its  little 


292  ESSAYS, 

great  men.  The  head  of  a  petty  corporation,  who  op- 
poses  the  designs  of  a  prince,  who  would  tyrannically 
force  his  subjects  to  save  their  best  clothes  for  Sundays; 
the  puny  pedant  who  finds  one  undiscovered  property 
in  the  polype,  or  describes  an  unheeded  process  in 
the  skeleton  of  a  mole,  and  whose  mind,  like  his  mi- 
croscope, perceives  nature  only  in  detail ;  the  rhymer 
who  makes  smooth  verses,  and  paints  to  our  imagina- 
tion, when  he  should  only  speak  to  our  hearts  ;  all 
equally  fancy  themselves  walking  forward  to  immor- 
tality, and  desire  the  crowd  behind  them  to  look  on. 
The  crowd  takes  them  at  their  word.  Patriot,  philo- 
sopher, and  poet,  are  shouted  in  their  train. — '  Where 
was  there  ever  so  much  merit  seen  ?  No  times  so  im- 
portant as  our  own  ;  ages,  yet  unborn,  shall  gaze  with 
wonder  and  applause  !'  To  such  music,  the  important 
pigmy  moves  forward,  bustling  and  swelling,  and  aptly 
compared  to  a  puddie  in  a  storm. 

I  have  lived  to  see  generals  who  once  had  crowds 
hallooing  after  them  wherever  they  went,  who  were 
be-praised  by  newspapers  and  magazines,  those  echoes 
of  the  voice  of  the  vulgar,  and  yet  they  have  long 
sunk  into  merited  obscurity,  with  scarce  even  an  epi- 
taph left  to  flatter.  A  few  years  ago  the  herring 
fishery  employed  all  Grub-street ;  it  was  the  topic  irk 
every  coffee-house,  and  the  burden  of  every  ballad. 
We  were  to  drag  up  oceans  of  gold  from  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  ;  we  were  to  supply  all  Europe  with  herrings 
upon  our  own  terms.  At  present  we  hear  no  more 
of  ail  this.  We  have  fished  up  very  little  gold,  that  I 
can  learn  ;  nor  do  we  furnish  the  world  with  herrings, 
as  was  expected.  Let  us  wait  but  a  few  years  longer, 
and  we  shall  find  all  our  expectations  a  herring. 
fishery. 


ESSAYS.  293 

SPECIMEN  OF  A  MAGAZINE  IN  MINIATURE. 

We  essayists,  who  are  allowed  but  one  subject  at  a 
time,  are  by  no  means  so  fortunate  as  the  writers  cf 
magazines,  who  write  upcn  several.  If  a  magaziner 
be  dull  upon  the  Spanish  war,  he  soon  has  us  up  again 
with  the  ghost  in  Cock-lane ;  if  the  reader  begins  to 
doze  upon  that,  he  is  quickly  roused  by  an  eastern 
tale ;  tales  prepare  us  for  poetry,  and  poetry  for  the 
meteorological  history  of  the  weather.  It  is  the  life 
and  soul  of  a  magazine,  never  to  be  long  dull  upon 
one  subject ;  and  the  reader,  like  the  sailor's  horse,  has 
at  least  the  comfortable  refreshment  of  having  the  spur 
often  changed. 

As  I  see  no  reason  why  they  should  carry  off  all 
the  rewards  of  genius,  I  have  some  thoughts,  for  the 
future,  of  making  this  essay  a  magazine  rn  miniature  : 
I  shall  hop  from  subject  to  subject,  and  if  properly 
encouraged,  I  intend  in  time  to  adorn  my  feuiile-volant 
with  pictures.     But  to  begin,  iu  the  usual  form,  with 

A  modest  Address  to  the  Public. 

The  public  has  been  so  often  imposed  upon  by  the 
unperforming  promises  of  others,  that  it  is  with  the 
utmost  modesty  we  assure  them  of  our  inviolable  de- 
sign of  giving  the  very  best  collection  that  ever  asto- 
nished society.  The  public  we  honour  and  regard, 
and  therefore  to  instruct  and  entertain  them  is  our 
highest  ambition,  with  labours  calcjpited  as  well  to 
the  head  as  the  heart.  If  four  extraordinary  pages  of 
letter-press  be  any  recommendation  of  our  wit,  we 
may  at  least  boast  the  honour  of  vindicating  our  own 
abilities.  To  say  more  in  favout  of  the  Infernal  .Maga- 
zine, would  be  unworthy  the  public  ;  to  say  less, 
would  be  injurious  to  ourselves.  As  we  have  no  in- 
terested motives  for  tins  undertaking,  being  a  society 
of  gentlemen  of  distinction,  we  disdain  to  cat  or  write 
like  hirelings;  we  are  all  gentlemen,  resolved  to  sell 
our  sixpenny  magazine  merely  for  our  own  amusement. 

Be  careful  to  ask  for  the  Infernal  Magazine. 


294 


ESSAYS. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  THAT   MOST   INGENIOUS    OP   ALL   PATRONS 
THE  TRIPOLINE   AMBASSADOR  ; 

May  it  please  your  Excellency, 
As  your  taste  in  the  fine  arts  is  universally  allowed 
and  admired,  permit  the  authors  of  the  Infernal  Ma- 
gazine to  lay  the  following  sheets  humbly  at  your 
excellency's  toe  ;  and  should  our  labours  ever  have 
the  happiness  of  one  day  adorning  the  courts  of  Fez, 
v/e  doubt  not  that  the  influence  wherewith  we  are 
honoured,  shall  be  ever  retained  with  the  most  warm 
ardour  by, 

May  it  please  your  Excellency, 

Ycur  most  devoted  humble  servants, 

The  Authors  of  the  Infernal  Magazine. 

A  SPEECH, 

SPOKEN  BY  THE  INDIGENT  PHILOSOPHER,  TO  PERSUADE 
HIS  Cl.UB  AT  CATEATON  NOT  TO  DECLARE  WAR  AGAINST 
SPAIN. 

My  honest  fnends  and  brother  politicians,  I  per- 
ceive that  the  intended  war  with  Spain  makes  many 
of  you  uneasy.  Yesterday,  as  we  were  told,  the 
stocks  rose,  and  vou  were  glad  ;  to-day  they  fall,  and 
you  are  again  miserable.  But,  my  dear  friends,  what 
is  the  rising  or  falling  of  the  stocks  to  us,  who  have  no 
money  1  Let  Nathan  Ben  Funk,  the  Dutch  Jew,  be 
glad  or  sorry  for  this  ;  but,  my  good  Mr.  Bellows- 
mender,  what  is  all  this  to  you  or  me  1  You  must 
mend  broken  bellows,  and  1  write  bad  prose,  as  long 
as  we  live,  whether  we  like  a  Spanish  war  or  not. 
Believe  me,  my  honest  friends,  whatever  you  may  talk 
of  liberty  and  your  own  reason,  both  that  liberty  and 
reason  are  conditionally  resigned  by  every  poor  man 
in  every  society  ;  and  as  %ve  were  born  to  work,  so 
others  are  born  to  watch  over  us  while  we  are  working. 


ESSAYS.  2<J5 

In  the  name  of  common  sense  then,  my  good  friends, 
let  the  great  keep  watch  over  us,  and  let  us  mind  our 
business,  and  perhaps  we  may  at  last  get  money  our- 
selves,  and  set  beggars  at  work  in  our  turn.  I  have  a 
Latin  sentence  that  is  worth  its  weight  in  gold,  and 
which  I  shall  beg  leave  to  translate  for  your  instruc- 
tion. An  author,  called  Lily's  Grammar,  finely  ob- 
serves, that  '  JEs  in  presenti  perfectum  format ;'  that 
is,  *  Ready  money  makes  a  perfect  man.'  Let  us 
then  get  ready  money,  and  let  them  that  will  spend 
theirs  by  going  to  war  with  Spain. 

RULES  FOR  BEHAVIOUR, 

DRAWN    UP    BY   THE   INDIGENT  PHILOSOPHER. 

If  you  be  a  rich  man,  you  may  enter  the  room  with 
three  loud  hems,  march  deliberately  up  to  the  chim- 
ney, and  turn  your  back  to  the  fire.  If  you  be  a  poor 
man,  I  would  advise  you  to  shrink  into  the  room  as 
fast  as  you  can,  and  place  yourself,  as  usual,  upon 
the  corner  of  a  chair,  in  a  remote  corner. 

When  you  are  desired  to  sing  in  company,  I  would 
advise  you  to  refuse  ;  for  it  is  a  thousand  to  one  but 
that  you  torment  us  with  affoctation  or  a  bad  voice. 

If  you  be  young,  and  live  with  an  old  man,  I 
would  advise  you  not  to  like  gravy.  I  was  disin- 
herited myself  tor  liking  gravy. 

Do  not  laugh  much  in  public:  the  spectators  that 
are  not  as  merry  as  you,  will  hate  you,  either  because 
they  envy  your  happiness,  or  fancy  themselves  the 
subject  of  your  mirth. 

RULES  FOR  RAISING  THE  DEVIL, 

Tratm.  UT.h  /•'?  Lati"  ?f  'Jan;r"s  d'-  Sortiariis,  a  writer  contem- 
porary «uh  Calvin,  and  one  ol  Hie  Reformers  of  our  Church. 

The  person  who  desires  to  raUe  the  devil,  is  to  sa- 
crifice a  dog,  a  cat,  and  a  hen,  all  of  his  own  property, 
to  Heelzebub.  He  is  to  swear  an  eternal  obedience, 
and  then  to  receive  a  mark  in  some  unseen  place, 
either  under  the  eye-lid,  or  in  the  roof  of  the  mouth, 

d 


29G  ESSAYS. 

inflicted  by  the  devil  himself.  Upon  this  he  has  power 
given  him  over  three  spirits  ;  one  for  earth,  another 
for  air,  and  a  third  for  the  sea.  Upon  certain  times 
the  devil  holds  an  assembly  of  magicians,  in  which 
each  is  to  give  an  account  of  what  evil  he  has  done, 
and  what  he  wishes  to  do.  At  this  assembly  he  ap- 
pears in  the  shape  of  an  old  man,  or  often  like  a  goat 
with  large  horns.  They,  upon  this  occasion,  renew 
their  vows  of  obedience ;  and  then  form  a  grand 
dance  in  honour  of  their  false  deity.  The  deity  in- 
structs them  in  every  method  of  injuring  mankind,  in 
gathering  poisons,  and  of  riding  upon  occasion  through 
the  air.  He  shews  them  the  whole  method,  upon 
examination,  of  giving  evasive  answers;  his  spirits 
have  power  to  assume  the  form  of  angels  of  light,  and 
there  is  but  one  method  of  detecting  them,  viz.  to  ask 
them,  in  proper  form,  what  method  is  the  most  certain 
to  propagate  the  faith  over  all  the  world  ?  To  this 
they  are  not  permitted  by  the  superior  Power  to  make 
a  false  reply,  nor  are  they  willing  to  give  the  true 
one  ;  wherefore  they  continue  silent,  and  are  thus 
detected. 


BEAU  TIBBS  :  A  CHARACTER. 

Though  naturally  pensive,  yet  I  am  fond  of  gay 
company,  and  take  every  opportunity  of  thus  dis- 
missing the  mind  from  duty.  From  this  motive  1  am 
often  found  in  the  centre  of  a  crowd  ;  and  wherever 
pleasure  is  to  be  sold,  am  always  a  purchaser.  In 
those  places,  without  being  remarked  by  any,  I  join 
in  whatever  goes  forward,  work  my  passions  into  a 
similitude  of  frivolous  earnestness,  shout  as  they  shout, 
and  condemn  as  they  happen  to  disapprove.  A  mind 
tii us  wink  for  a  while  below  its  natural  standard,  is 
qualified  for  stronger  flights,  as  those  first  retire  who 
would  spring  forward  with  greater  vigour. 

Attracted  by  the  serenity  of  the  evening,  a  friend 
iud  I  lately  went  to  gaze  upon  the  company  in  one 


ESSAYS.  297 

of  the  public  walks  near  the  city.  Here  we  sauntered 
.ogether  for  some  time,  either  praising  the  beauty  of 
such  as  were  handsome, ^or  the  dresses  of  such  as  hud 
nothing  else  to  recommend  them.  We  had  gone  thus 
deliberately  forward  for  some  time,  when  my  friend, 
stopping  on  a  sudden,  caught  me  by  the  elbow,  and 
led  me  out  of  the  public  walk.  I  could  perceive  by 
the  quickness  of  his  pace,  and  by  his  frequently  look- 
ing behind,  that  he  was  attempting  to  avoid  some- 
body who  followed  :  we  now  turned  to  the  right,  then 
to  the  left :  as  we  went  forward,  he  still  went  faster, 
but  in  vain  ;  the  person  whom  he  attempted  to  escape, 
hunted  us  through  every  doubling,  and  gained  upon 
us  each  moment ;  so  that  at  last  we  fairly  stood  still, 
resolving  to  face  what  we  could  not  avoid. 

Our  pursuer  soon  came  up,  and  joined  us  with  all 
the  familiarity  of  an  old  acquaintance.  '  My  dear 
Charles,'  cries  he,  shaking  my  friend's  hand,  '  where 
have  you  been  hiding  this  half  a  century  1  Positively 
1  had  fancied  you  had  gone  down  to  cultivate  matri- 
mony and  your  estate  in  the  country.'  During  the 
reply,  1  had  an  opportunity  of  surveying  the  appear- 
ance of  our  new  companion.  His  hat  was  pinched 
up  with  peculiar  smartness  :  his  looks  were  pale,  thin, 
and  sharp  ;  round  his  neck  he  wore  a  broad  black 
riband,  and  in  his  bosom  a  buckle  studded  with  glass; 
his  coat  was  trimmed  with  tarnished  twist ;  he  wore 
by  his  side  a  sword  with  a  black  hilt :  and  his  stockings 
of  silk,  though  newly  washed,  were  grown  yellow  by 
long  service.  1  was  so  much  engaged  with  the  pe- 
culiarity of  his  dress,  that  1  attended  only  to  the  latter 
part  of  my  friend's  reply  ;  in  which  he  complimented 
Mr.  Tibbs  on  the  taste  of  his  clothes  and  the  bloom 
in  his  countenance.  '  Psha,  psha,  Charles,'  cries  the 
figure,  '  no  more  of  that  if  you  love  me :  you  know 
I  hate  flattery,  on  my  soul  I  do  ;  and  yet  to  be  sure 
an  intimacy  with  the  great  will  improve  one's  ap- 
pearance, and  a  course  of  venison  will  fatten  ;  and 
yet,  faith,  I  despise  the  great  as  much  as  you  do  :  but 
O  2 


IU 


298  ESSAYS, 

there  are  a  great  many  damned  honest  fellows  among 
them,  and  we  must  not  quarrel  with  one  half  because 
the  other  wants  breeding.  If  they  were  all  such  as 
my  Lord  Mudler,  one  of  the  most  good-natured 
creatures  that  ever  squeezed  a  lemon,  1  should  my- 
self be  among  the  number  of  their  admirers.  I  was 
yesterday  to  dine  at  the  Duchess  of  Piccadilly's.  My 
lord  was  there.  Ned,  says  he  to  me,  Ned,  says  he,  I 
will  hold  gold  to  silver  I  can  tell  where  you  were 
poaching  last  night.  Poaching  !  my  lord,  says  I ; 
faith  you  have  missed  already  ;  for  I  stayed  at  home 
and  let  the  girls  poach  for  me.  That  is  my  way  :  I 
take  a  fine  woman  as  some  animals  do  their  prey ; 
stand  still,  and  swoop,  they  fall  into  my  mouth.' 

'  Ah,  Tibbs,  thou  art  a  happy  fellow,'  cried  my 
companion,  with  looks  of  infinite  pity.  '  I  hope  your 
fortune  is  as  much  improved  as  your  understanding  in 
such  company.'  'Improved!'  replied  the  other, 
'  you  shall  know — but  let  it  go  no  farther, — a  great 
secret — five  hundred  a  year  to  begin  with. — My  lord's 
word  of  honour  for  it — -His  lordship  took  me  in  his  own 
chariot  yesterday,  and  we  had  a  tete-a-tete  dinner 
in  the  country,  where  we  talked  of  nothing  else.'  '  I 
fancy  you  forgot,  sir,'  cried  I,  'you  told  us  but  this 
moment  of  your  dining  yesterday  in  town  V  '  Did  I 
say  so  ?'  replied  he  coolly.  '  To  be  sure,  if  I  said  so, 
it  was  so. — Dined  in  town  :  egad,  now  I  remember,  I 
did  dine  in  town  ;  but  I  dined  in  the  country  too  ;  for 
you  must  know,  my  boys,  1  eat  two  dinners.  By  the 
by,  I  am  grown  as  nice  as  the  devil  in  my  eating. 
I  will  tell  you  a  pleasant  affair  about  that :  we  were  a 
select  party  of  us  to  dine  at  Lady  Grogram's,  an  af- 
fected piece,  but  let  it  go  no  farther  ;  a  secret :  Well, 
says  I,  I  will  hold  a  thousand  guineas,  and  say  Done 
first,  that — But,  dear  Charles,  you  are  an  honest  crea- 
ture ;  lend  me  half-a-crown  for  a  minute  or  two,  or 
so,  just  till — But  hark'ee,  ask  me  for  it  the  next  time 
we  meet,  or  it  may  be  twenty  to  one  but  I  forget  to 
pay  you.' 


ESSAYS.  299 

When  he  left  us,  our  conversation  naturally  turned 
upon  so  extraordinary  a  character,  _  '  His  very  dress, 
cries  my  friend,  '  is  not  less  extraordinary  than  his  con- 
duct. If  you  meet  him  this  day,  you  find  him  in  rags  : 
if  the  next,  in  embroidery.  With  those  persons  of  dis- 
tinction, of  whom  he  talks  so  familiarly,  he  has  scarce 
a  coffee-house  acquaintance.  However,  both  for  the 
interest  of  society,  and,  perhaps,  for  his  own,  Heaven 
has  made  him  poor ;  and  while  all  the  world  per- 
ceives his  wants,  he  fancies  them  concealed  from 
every  eye.  An  agreeable  companion,  because  he  un- 
derstands flattery  ;  and  all  must  be  pleased  with  the 
first  part  of  his  conversation,  though  all  are  sure  of  its 
ending  with  a  demand  on  their  purse.  While  his 
youth  countenances  the  levity  of  his  conduct,  lie  may 
thus  earn  a  precarious  subsistence  ;  but,  when  age 
comes  on,  the  gravity  of  which  is  incompatible  with 
buffoonery,  then  will  he  find  himself  forsaken  by  all  ; 
condemned  in  the  decline  of  life  to  hang  upon  some 
rich  family  whom  he  once  despised,  there  to  undergo 
all  the  ingenuity  of  studied  contempt ;  to  be  employed 
only  as  a  spy  upon  the  servants,  or  a  bugbear  to 
fright  children  into  duty.' 


BEAU  TIBBS— CONTINUED. 

There  are  some  acquaintances  whom  it  is  no  easy 
matter  to  shake  off.  My  little  beau  yesterday  over- 
took me  again  in  one  of  the  public  walks,  and  slapping 
me  on  the  shoulder,  saluted  me  with  an  air  of  the  most 
perfect  familiarity.  His  dress  was  the  same  as  usual, 
except  that  he  had  more  powder  in  his  hair,  wore  a 
dirtier  shirt,  and  had  on  a  pair  of  Temple  spectacles, 
and  his  hat  under  his  arm. 

As  I  knew  him  to  be  a  harmless  amusing  little 
thing,  1  could  not  return  his  smiles  with  any  degree 
of  severity ;  so  we  walked  forward  on  terms  of  the 
utmost  intimacy,  and  in  a  few  minutes  discussed  all 
the  usual  topics  preliminary  to  particular  conversation. 


300  ESSAYS. 

The  oddities  th-*c  marked  his  character,  however, 
soon  began  to  appear ;  he  bowed  to  several  well- 
dressed  persons,  who,  by  their  manner  of  returning;  the 
compliment,  appeared  perfect  strangers.  At  intervals 
he  drew  out  a  pocket-book,  seeming  to  take  memoran- 
dums before  all  the  company  with  much  importance 
and  assiduity.  In  this  manner  he  led  me  through  the 
length  of  the  whole  Mall,  fretting  at  his  absurdities, 
and  fancying  myself  laughed  at  as  well  as  him  by 
every  spectator. 

When  we  were  got  to  the  end  of  our  procession 
'  Blast  me,'  cries  he,  with  an  air  of  vivacity,  '  I 
never  saw  the  Park  so  thin  in  my  life  before  ;  there's 
no  company  at  all  to-day.  Not  a  single  face  to  be 
seen.'  '  No  company,'  interrupted  I,  peevishly, 
'  no  company  where  there  is  such  a  crowd  !  Why, 
man,  there  is  too  much.  What  are  the  thousands  that 
have  been  laughing  at  us  but  company  V  '  Lord, 
my  dear,'  returned  he  with  the  utmost  good-humour, 
'  you  seem  immensely  chagrined  :  but,  blast  me,  when 
the  world  laughs  at  me,  1  laugh  at  the  world,  and  so 
we  are  even.  My  Lord  Trip,  Bill  Squash  the  Creo- 
lian,  and  I,  sometimes  make  a  party  at  being  ridicu- 
lous ;  and  so  we  say  and  do  a  thousand  things  for  the 
joke's  sake.  But  I  see  you  are  grave  ;  and  if  you  are 
for  a  fine  grave  sentimental  companion,  you  shall  dine 
with  my  wife  to-day;  1  must  insist  on't ;  I'll  intro- 
duce you  to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  a  lady  of  as  elegant  qualifi- 
cations as  any  in  nature;  she  was  bred,  but  that's 
between  ourselves,  under  the  inspection  of  the  countess 
of  Shorediteh.  A  charming  body  of  voice  !  But  no 
more  of  that,  she  shall  give  us  a  song.  You  shall  see 
my  little  girl  too,  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Tibbs, 
a  sweet  pretty  creature  :  I  design  her  for  mv  Lord 
Drumstick's  eldest  son  ;  but  that's  in  friendship,  let  it 
go  no  farther ;  she's  but  six  years  old,  and  yet  she 
walks  a  minuet,  and  plays  on  the  guitar,  immensely 
already.  I  intend  she  shall  be  as  perfect  as  possihlir 
in  every  accomplishment.  In  the  first  phtce,  1  '11  make 
her  a  scholar ;  I'll  teach  her  Greek  myself,  and  I 


ESSAYS.  SCI 

intend  to  learn  that  language  purposely  to  instruct  her, 
but  let  that  be  a  secret.' 

Thus  saying,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  took 
me  by  the  arm  and  hauled  me  along.  We  passed 
through  many  dark  alleys,  and  winding  ways ;  for, 
from  some  motives  to  me  unknown,  he  seemed  to  have 
a  particular  aversion  to  every  frequented  street ;  at 
last,  however,  we  got  to  the  door  of  a  dismal-looking 
house  in  the  outlets  of  the  town,  where  he  informed 
me  he  chose  to  reside  for  the  benefit  of  the  air. 

We  entered  the  lower  door,  which  seemed  ever  to 
lie  most  hospitably  open  ;  and  I  began  to  ascend  an 
old  and  creaking  staircase;  when,  as  he  mounted  to 
shew  me  the  way,  he  demanded,  whether  I  delighted 
in  prospects ;  to  which  answering  in  the  affirmative, 
'  Then,'  said  he,  '  1  shall  shew  you  one  of  the  most 
charming  out  of  my  windows  ;  we  shall  see  the  ships 
sailing,  and  the  whole  country  for  twenty  miles  round, 
tiptop,  quite  high.  J\ly  Lord  Swamp  would  give  ten 
thousand  guineas  for  such  a  one;  but  as  I  sometimes 
pleasantly  tell  him,  1  always  love  to  keep  my  pros- 
pects at  home,  that  my  friends  may  come  to  see  me 
the  oftener.' 

By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs 
would  permit  us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what  he 
"  was  facetiously  pleased  to  call  the  first  floor  down  the 
chimney  ;  and,  knocking  at  the  door,  a  voice  with  a 
Scotch  accent  from  within  demanded,  '  W'ha's  there?' 
My  conductor  answered  that  it  was  him.  But  this  not 
satisfying  the  querist,  the  voice  again  repeated  the 
demand  ;  to  which  he  answered  louder  than  before  ; 
and  now  the  door  was  opened  by  an  old  maid-servant 
with  cautious  reluctance. 

When  we  were  got  in,  he  welcomed  me  to  his  house 
with  great  ceremony,  and  turning  to  the  old  woman, 
asked  where  her  lady  was.  '  Good  troth,'  replied 
she  in  the  northern  dialect,  '  she's  washing  your  twa 
shiits  at  the  next  door,  because  they  have  taken  an 
oath  against  lending-  out  the  tub  any  longer.'  '  .My 
two  shirts  !'    cries   he,  in   a  tone  that  faltered   with 


302  ESSAYS. 

confusion,  '  what  does  the  idiot  mean  V — •  1  ken 
what  I  mean  well  enough,'  replied  the  other ;  '  she's 
washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because 
'  '  Fire  and  fury,  no  more  of  thy  stupid  explana- 
tions,' cried  he.  '  Go  and  inform  her  we  have  got 
company. — Were  that  Scotch  hag,'  continued  he, 
turning  to  me,  '  to  be  for  ever  in  my  family,  she 
v/ould  never  learn  politeness,  nor  forget  that  absurd 
poisonous  accent  of  her's,  or  testify  the  smallest  speci- 
men of  breeding  or  high  life  ;  and  yet  it  is  very  sur- 
prising too,  as  1  had  her  from  a  parliament  man,  a 
frieud  of  mine,  from  the  Highlands,  one  of  the  politest 
men  in  the  world  ;  but  that's  a  secret.' 

We  waited  some  time  for  Mrs.  Tibbs'  arrival,  dur- 
ing which  interval  I  had  a  full  opportunity  of  survey- 
ing the  chamber  and  all  its  furniture  ;  which  con- 
sisted of  four  chairs  with  old  wrought  bottoms,  that  he 
assured  me  were  his  wife's  embroidery ;  a  square 
table  that  had  been  once  japanned ;  a  cradle  in  one 
corner,  a  lumber-cabinet  in  the  other ;  a  broken 
shepherdess,  and  a  mandarine  without  a  head,  were 
stuck  over  the  chimney  ;  and  round  the  walls  several 
paltry  unframed  pictures,  which  he  observed  were  all 
of  his  own  drawing.  '  What  do  you  think,  sir,  of  that 
head  in  the  corner,  done  in  the  manner  of  Grisonil 
There's  the  true  keeping  in  it ;  it's  my  own  face  ;  and, 
though  there  happens  to  be  no  likeness,  a  countess 
offered  me  a  hundred  for  its  fellow  :  I  refused  her,  for 
hang  it,  that  would  be  mechanical,  you  know.' 

The  wife  at  last  made  her  appearance ;  at  once  a 
slattern  and  coquet;  much  emaciated,  but  still  carry- 
ing the  remains  of  beauty.  She  made  twenty  apolo- 
gies for  being  seen  in  such  an  odious  dishabille,  but 
hoped  to  be  excused,  as  she  had  stayed  out  all  night 
at  Vauxhall  Gardens  with  the  countess,  who  was  ex- 
cessively fond  of  the  horns.  '  And,  indeed,  my  dear,' 
added  she,  turning  to  her  husband,  '  his  lordship 
drank  your  health  in  a  bumper.'  '  Poor  Jack  !'  cries 
he,  'a  dear  good-natured  creature,  I  know  he  loves 
me  ;  but  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  have  given  orders  for 


ESSAYS.  303 

dinner ;  you  need  make  no  great  preparations  neither, 
there  are  but  three  of  us ;  something  elegant,  and 

little  will  do;  a  turbot,  an  ortolan,  or  a *  '  Or 

what  do  you  think,  my  dear,'  interrupts  the  wife, 
'  of  a  nice  pretty  bit  of  ox-cheek,  piping  hot,  and 
dressed  with  a  little  of  my  own  sauce  ?'  '  The  very 
thing,'  replies  he  ;  'it  will  eat  best  with  some  smart 
bottled  beer;  but  be  sure  to  let's  have  the  sauce  his 
Grace  was  so  fond  of.  I  hate  your  immense  loads  of 
meat;  that  is  country  all  over ;  extreme  disgusting  to 
those  who  are  in  the  least  acquainted  with  high  life.' 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  began  to  abate,  and  my 
appetite  to  increase  ;  the  company  of  fools  may  at  first 
make  us  smile,  but  at  last  never  fails  of  rendering  us 
melancholy.  I  therefore  pretended  to  recollect  a  prior 
engagement,  and  after  having  shewn  my  respects  to 
the  house,  by  giving  the  old  servant  a  piece  of  money 
at  the  door,  I  took  my  leave  ;  Mr.  Tibbs  assuring  me, 
that  dinner,  if  I  stayed,  would  be  ready  at  least  in 
less  than  two  hours.    QJ  n 



ON  THE  IRRESOLUTION  OF  YOUTH. 

As  it  has  been  observed  that  few  are  better  qualified 
to  give  others  advice,  than  those  who  have  taken  the 
lc;i~i  of  it  themselves;  so  in  this  respect  I  find  myself 
perfectly  authorized  to  offer  mine  ;  and  must  take 
leave  to  throw  together  a  few  observations  upon  that 
part  of  a  young  man's  conduct,  on  his  entering  into 
life,  as  it  is  called. 

The  most  usual  way  among  young  men  who  have 
no  resolution  of  their  own,  is  first  to  ask  one  friend's 
advice,  and  follow  it  for  some  time  ;  then  to  ask  ad- 
vice of  another,  and  turn  to  that ;  so  of  a  third,  still 
unsteady,  always  changing.  However,  every  change 
of  this  nature  is  for  the  worse  ;  people  may  tell  you  of 
your  being  unfit  for  some  peculiar  occupations  in  life  ; 
but  heed  them  not ;  whatever  employment  you  fol- 
low with  perseverance  and  assiduity,  will  be  found  fit 


304  ESSAYS. 

for  you;  it  will  be  your  support  in  youth,  and  com. 
fort  in  age.  In  learning  the  useful  part  of  every  pro- 
fession, very  moderate  abilities  will  suffice  :  great 
abilities  are  generally  obnoxious  to  the  possessors. 
Lite  has  been  compared  to  a  race  ;  but  the  allusion 
still  improves  by  observing,  that  the  most  swift  are 
fever  the  moll  apt  to  stray  from  the  course. 

'Jo  know  one  profession  only,  is  enough  for  one 
man  to  know  ;  and  this,  whatever  the  professors  may 
tell  you  to  the  contrary,  is  soon  learned.  Be  con- 
tented, therefore,  with  one  good  employment;  for  if 
you  understand  two  at  a  time,  people  will  give  you 
business  in  neither. 

A  conjurer  and  a  tailor  once  happened  to*  converse 
together.  '  Alas !'  cries  the  tailor,  '  what  an  un- 
happy poor  creature  am  I  !  If  people  take  it  into  their 
heads  to  live  without  clothes,  I  am  undone  ;  I  have 
no  other  trade  to  have  recourse  to.' — '  In3eed,  friend, 
I  pity  you  sincerely,' replies  the  conjurer  ;  '  but,  thank 
Heaven,  things  are  not  quite  so  bad  with  me  :  for,  if 
one  trick  should  fail,  I  have  a  hundred  tricks  more 
for  them  yet.  However,  if  at  any  time  you  are  re- 
duced to  beggary,  apply  to  me,  and  I  will  relieve  you.' 
A  famine  overspread  the  land  ;  the  tailor  made  a  shift 
to  live,  because  his  customers  could  not  be  without 
clothes  ;  but  the  poor  conjurer,  with  all  his  hundred 
tricks,  could  find  none  that  had  money  to  throw  away  : 
it  was  in  vain  that  he  promised  to  eat  fire,  or  to  vomit 
pins ;  no  single  creature  would  relieve  him,  till  he  was 
at  last  obliged  to  beg  from  the  very  tailor  whose  calling 
he  had  formerly  despised. 

There  are  no  obstructions  more  fatal  to  fortune  than 
pride  and  resentment.  If  you  must  resent  injuries  at 
all,  at  least  suppress  your  indignation  till  you  become 
rich,  and  then  shew  away.  The  resentment  of  a  poor 
man  is  like  the  efforts  of  a  harmless  insect  to  st'ng  ;  it 
may  get  him  crushed,  but  cannot  defend  him.  Who 
values  that  anger  which  is  consumed  only  in  empty 
menaces  ? 

Once  upon  a  time  a  goose  fed  its  young  by  a  pond 


ESSAYS.  305 

side ;  and  a  goose,  in  such  circumstances,  is  always 
extremely  proud,  and  excessively  punctilious.  If  any 
other  animal,  without  the  least  design  to  offend,  hap- 
pened to  pass  that  way,  the  goose  was  immediate'y  at 
it.  The  pond,  she  said,  was  hers,  and  she  would 
maintain  her  right  in  it,  and  support  her  honour,  while 
she  had  a  bill  to  hiss,  or  a  wing  to  flutter.  In  this 
manner  she  drove  away  ducks,  pigs,  and  chickens  ; 
nay,  even  the  insidious  cat  was  seen  to  scamper.  A 
lounging  mastiff,  however,  happened  to  pass  by,  and 
thought  it  no  harm  if  he  should  lap  a  little  of  the 
water,  as  he  was  thirsty.  The  guardian  goose  flew 
at  him  like  a  fury,  pecked  at  him  with  her  beak,  and 
slapped  him  with  her  feathers.  The  dog  grew  angry, 
and  had  twenty  times  a  mind  to  give  her  a  sly  snap; 
but  suppressing  his  indignation,  because  his  master 
was  nigh,  '  A  pox  take  thee,'  cries  he,  'for  afool  ;  sure 
those  who  have  neither  strength  nor  weapons  to  fight, 
at  least  should  be  civil.'  So  saying,  he  went  forward 
to  the  pond,  quenched  his  thirst,  in  spite  of  the  goose, 
and  followed  his  master. 

Another  obstruction  to  the  fortune  of  youth  is,  that, 
while  they  are  willing  to  take  offence  from  none,  they 
a-re  also  equally  desirous  of  givir.g  nobody  offence. 
From  hence  they  endeavour  to  please  all,  comply 
with  every  request,  and  attempt  to  suit  themselves  to 
every  company;  have  no  will  of  their  own,  but,  like 
wax,  catch  every  contiguous  impression.  By  thus  at- 
tempting *o  give  universal  satisfaction,  they  at  last 
find  the-mselves  miserably  disappointed  :  to  bring  the 
generality  of  admirers  on  our  side,  it  is  sufficient  to 
attempt  pleasing  a  very  few. 

A  painter  of  eminence  was  once  resolved  to  finish  a 
piece  which  should  please  the  whole  world.  When, 
therefore,  he  had  drawn  a  picture,  in  which  his  utmost 
skill  was  exhausted,  it  was  exposed  in  the  public 
market-place,  with  directions  at  the  bottom  for  every 
spectator  to  mark  with  a  brush,  that  lay  by,  every 
limb  and  feature  which  seemed  erroneous.  The  spec- 
tator- came;  and  in  the  general  applauded  ;  but  each, 


305  ESSAYS. 

willing  to  shew  his  talent  at  criticism,  stigmatized 
whatever  he  thought  proper.  At  evening,  when  the 
painter  came,  he  was  mortified  to  find  the  picture  one 
universal  blot,  not  a  single  stroke  that  had  not  the 
marks  of  disapprobation.  Not  satisfied  with  this  trial, 
the  next  day  he  was  resolved  to  try  them  in  a  different 
manner :  and  exposing  his  picture  as  before,  desired 
that  every  spectator  would  mark  those  beauties  he  ap- 
proved or  admired.  The  people  complied,  and  the 
artist  returning,  found  his  picture  covered  with  the 
marks  of  beauty  ;  every  stroke  that  had  been  yester- 
day condemned,  now  received  the  character  of  appro- 
bation, '  Well,'  cries  the  painter,  '  I  now  find  that 
the  best  way  to  please  all  the  world,  is  to  attempt 
pleasing  one  half  of  it.' 


ON  MAD  DOGS. 

Indulgent  nature  seems  to  have  exempted  this  island 
from  many  of  those  epidemic  evils  which  are  so  fatal 
in  other  parts  of  the  world.  A  want  of  rain  for  a  few 
days  beyond  the  expected  season,  in  some  parts  of  the 
globe,  spreads  famine,  desolation,  and  terror,  over  the 
whole  country  ;  but,  in  this  fortunate  island  of  Britain, 
the  inhabitant  courts  health  in  every  breeze,  and  the 
husbandman  ever  sows  in  joyful  expectation. 

But  though  the  nation  be  exempt  from  real  evils,  it 
is  not  more  happy  on  this  account  than  others.  The 
people  are  afflicted,  it  is  true,  with  neither  famine  nor 
pestilence  ;  but  then  there  is  a  disorder  peculiar  to  the 
country,  which  every  season  makes  strange  ravages 
among  them  ;  it  spreads  with  pestilential  rapidity,  and 
infects  almost  every  rank  of  people  ;  what  is  still  more 
strange,  the  natives  have  no  name  for  this  peculiar 
malady,  though  well  known  to  foreign  physicians  by 
the  appellation  of  Epidemic  Terror. 

A  season  is  never  known  to  pass  in  which  the  people 
are  not  visited  by  this  cruel  calamity  in  one  shape  or 
another,  seemingly  different,  though  ever  the  same  ; 
one  year  it  issues  from  a  baker's  shop  in  the  shape  of 


ESSAYS.  307 

a  sixpenny  loaf,  the  next  it  takes  the  appearance  of  a 
comet  with  a  fiery  tail,  the  third  it  threatens  like  a  flat- 
bottomed  boat,  and  the  fourth  it  carries  consternation 
in  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog.  The  people,  when  once  in- 
fected, lose  their  relish  for  happiness,  saunter  about 
with  looks  of  despondence,  ask  after  the  calamities  of 
the  day,  and  receive  no  comfort  but  in  heightening 
each  other's  distress.  It  is  insignificant  how  remote 
or  near,  how  weak  or  powerful,  the  object  of  terror 
may  be,  when  once  they  resolve  to  fright  and  be 
frighted  ;  the  merest  trifles  sow  consternation  and  dis- 
may ;  each  proportions  his  fears,  not  to  the  object, 
but  to  the  dread  he  discovers  in  the  countenance  of 
others ;  for,  when  once  the  fermentation  is  begun,  it 
goes  on  of  itself,  though  the  original  cause  be  discon- 
tinued which  at  first  set  it  in  motion. 

A  dread  of  mad  dogs  is  the  epidemic  terror  which 
now  prevails,  and  the  whole  nation  is  at  present 
actually  groaning  under  the  malignity  of  its  influence. 
The  people  sally  from  their  houses  with  that  circum- 
spection which  is  prudent  in  such  as  expect  a  mad 
dog  at  every  turning.  The  physician  publishes  his 
prescription,  the  beadle  prepares  his  halter,  and  a  few 
of  unusual  bravery  arm  themselves  with  boots  and 
buff  gloves,  in  order  to  face  the  enemy,  if  he  should 
offer  to  attack  them.  In  short,  the  whole  people  stand 
bravely  upon  their  defence,  and  seem,  by  their  pre- 
sent spirit,  to  shew  a  resolution  of  being  tamely  bit  by 
mad  do,rs  no  longer. 

Their  manner  of  knowing  whether  a  dog  be  mad  or  no, 
somewhat  resembles  the  ancient  gothic  custom  of  try- 
ing witches.  The  old  woman  suspected  was  tied  hand 
and  foot,  and  thrown  into  the  water.  If  she  swam,  then 
she  was  instantly  carried  off  to  be  burnt  for  a  witch  ; 
if  she  sunk,  then  indeed  she  was  acquitted  of  the  charge, 
but  drowned  in  the  experiment.  In  the  same  manner 
a  crowd  gather  round  a  dog  suspected  of  madness,  and 
they  begin  by  teasing  the  devoted  animal  on  every 
side.  If  he  attempts  to  stand  upon  the  defensive,  and 
bite,  then  he  is  unanimously  found  guilty,  for  '  a  mad 


803 


ESSAYS. 


dog  always  snaps  at  every  thing.'  If,  on  the  contrary, 
he  strives  to  escape  by  running  away,  then  he  can  ex- 
pect no  compassion,  for  '  mad  dogs  always  run  straight 
forward  before  them.' 

It  is  pleasant  enough  for  a  neutral  being  like  me, 
who  have  no  share  in  those  ideal  calamities,  to  mark 
the  stages  of  this  national  disease.  The  terror  at  first 
feebly  enters  with  a  disregarded  story  of  a  little  dog 
that  had  gone  through  a  neighbouring  village,  which 
was  thought  to  be  mad  by  several  who  had  seen  him. 
The  next  account  comes,  that  a  mastiff  ran  through  a 
certain  lown,  and  had  bit  five  geese,  which  immsdi- 
alely  ran  mad,  foamed  at  the  bill,  and  died  in  great 
agonies  soon  after.  Then  comes  an  affecting  story  of 
a  little  boy  bit  in  the  leg,  and  gone  down  to  be  dipped 
in  the  salt  water.  When  the  people  have  sufficiently 
shuddered  at  that,  they  are  next  congealed  'vith  a 
frightful  account  of  a  man  who  was  said  lately  to  have 
died  from  a  bite  he  had  received  some  years  before. 
This  relation  only  prepares  the  way  for  another,  still 
more  hideous  ;  as  how  the  master  of  a  family,  with 
seven  small  children,  were  all  bit  by  a  mad  lap-dog; 
and  how  the  poor  father  first  perceived  the  infection, 
by  calling  for  a  draught  of  water,  where  he  saw  the 
lap-dog  swimming  in  the  cup. 

When  epidemic  terror  is  thus  once  excited,  every 
morning  comes  loaded  with  some  new  disaster  :  as  in 
stories  of  ghosts  each  loves  to  hear  the  account,  though 
it  only  serves  to  make  him  uneasy  ;  so  here  each  listens 
with  eagerness,  and  adds  to  the  tidings  with  new  cir- 
cumstances of  peculiar  horror.  A  lady,  for  instance, 
in  the  country,  of  very  weak  nerves,  has  been  frighted 
by  the  barking  of  a  dog;  and  this,  alas!  too  frequently 
happens.  The  story  soon  is  improved,  and  spreads, 
that  a  mad  dog  had  frighted  a  lady  of  distinction. 
These  circumstances  begin  to  grow  terrible  before  they 
have  reached  the  neighbouring  village;  and  there  the 
report  is,  that  a  lady  of  quality  was  bit  by  a  mad 
mastiff.  This  account  every  moment  gathers  new 
strength,  and  grows  more  dismal  as  it  approaches  the 


ESSAYS. 


309 


capital ;  and,  by  the  time  it  has  arrived  in  town,  the 
lady  is  described,  with  wild  eyes,  foaming  mouth,  run- 
ning mad  upon  all  four,  barking  like  a  dog,  biting  her 
servants,  and  at  last  smothered  between  two  beds  by 
the  advice  of  her  doctors  ;  while  the  mad  mastiff  is,  in 
the  mean  time,  ranging  the  whole  country  over,  slaver- 
ing at  the  mouth,  and  seeking  whom  he  may  devour. 

My  landlady,  a  good-natured  woman,  but  a  little 
credulous,  waked  me  some  mornings  ago  before  the 
usual  hour,  with  horror  and  astonishment  in  her  looks. 
She  desired  me,  if  I  had  any  regard  for  my  safety,  to 
keep  within  ;  for  a  few  days  ago,  so  dismal  an  accident 
had  happened,  as  to  put  all  the  world  upon  their  guard. 
A  mad  dog  down  in  the  country,  she  assured  me,  had 
bit  a  farmer,  who  soon  becoming  mad,  ran  into  his 
own  yard  and  bit  a  fine  brindled  cow  ;  the  cow  quickly 
became  as  mad  as  the  man,  began  to  foam  at  the 
mouth,  and  raising  herself  up,  walked  about  on  her 
hind  legs,  sometimes  barking  like  a  dog,  and  sometimes 
attempting  to  talk  like  the  farmer.  Upon  examining 
the  grounds  of  this  story,  I  found  my  landlady  had  it 
from  one  neighbour,  who  had  it  from  another  neigh- 
bour, who  heard  it  from  very  good  authority. 

Were  most  stories  of  this  nature  well  examined,  it 
would  be  found  that  numbers  of  such  as  have  been  said 
to  suffer  are  in  no  way  injured  :  and  that  of  those  who 
have  been  actually  bitten,  not  one  in  a  hundred  was 
bit  by  a  mad  dog.  Such  accounts,  in  general,  there- 
fore only  serve  to  make  the  people  miserable  by  false 
terrors;  and  sometimes  fright  the  patient  into  actual 
frenzy,  by  creating  those  very  symptoms  they  pretended 
to  deplore. 

But  even  allowing  three  or  four  to  die  in  a  senson 
of  this  terrihle  death  (and  four  is  probably  too  large  a 
concession),  yet  still  it  is  not  considered  how  inanv  are 
preserved  in  their  health  and  in  their  property  by  this 
devoted  animal's  services.  The  midnight  robber  is 
kept  at  a  distance  ;  the  insidious  thief  is  often  detected  ; 
the  healthful  chase  repairs  manv  a  worn  constitution  ; 
and  the  poor  man  finds  in  his  dog  a  willing  assistant; 


C~ 


310 


ESSAYS. 


eager  to  lessen  his  toil,  and  content  with  the  smallest 
retribution. 

'  A  dog,'  says  one  of  the  English  poets, '  is  an  honest 
creature,  and  I  am  a  friend  to  dogs.'  Of  all  the  beasts 
that  graze  the  lawn,  or  hunt  the  forest,  a  dog  is  the 
only  animal,  that  leaving  his  fellows,  attempts  to  cul- 
tivate the  friendship  of  man  :  to  man  he  looks,  in  all 
his  necessities,  with  speaking  eye  for  assistance  ;  exerts 
for  him  all  the  little  service  in  his  power  with  cheerful- 
ness and  pleasure  ;  for  him  bears  famine  and  fatigue 
with  patience  and  resignation  ;  no  injuries  can  abate 
his  fidelity,  n  >  distress  induce  him  to  forsake  his  bene- 
factor; studious  to  please,  and  fearing  to  offend,  he  is 
still  an  humble,  steadfast  dependant ;  and  in  him  alone 
fawning  is  not  flattery.  How  unkind  then  to  torture 
this  faithful  creature,  who  has  left  the  forest  to  claim 
the  protection  of  man!  How  ungrateful  a  return  to 
the  trusty  animal  for  all  its  services. 


ON  THE  INCREASED  LOVE  OP  LIFE  WITH  AGE. 

Age,  that  lessens  the  enjoyment  of  life,  increases  our 
desire  of  living.  Those  dangers,  which,  in  the  vigour 
of  youth,  we  had  learned  to  despise,  assume  new  ter- 
rors as  we  grow  old.  Our  caution  increasing  as  our 
years  increase,  fear  becomes  at  last  the  prevailing 
passion  of  the  mind,  and  the  small  remainder  of  life  is 
taken  up  in  useless  efforts  to  keep  off  our  end,  or  pro- 
vide for  a  continued  existence. 

Strange  contradiction  in  our  nature,  and  to  which 
even  the  wise  are  liable!  If  I  should  judge  of  that 
part  of  life  which  lies  before  me  by  that  which  I  have 
already  seen,  the  prospect  is  hideous.  Experience  tells 
me,  that  my  past  enjoyments  have  brought  no  real 
felicity  ;  and  sensation  assures  me,  that  those  I  have 
felt  are  stronger  than  those  which  are  yet  to  come. 
Yet  experience  and  sensation  in  vain  persuade  ;  hope, 
more  powerful  than  either,  dresses  out  the  distant 
prospect  in  fancied  beauty ;  some  happiness,  in  long 


ESSA.YS.  311 

perspective,  still  beckons  me  to  pursue ;  and,  like  a 
losing  gamester,  every  new  disappointment  increases 
my  ardour  to  continue  the  game- 
Whence  then  is  this  increased  love  of  life,  which 
grows  upon  us  with  our  years!     Whence  comes  it, 
that  we  thus  make  greater  efforts  to  preserve  our  ex- 
istence, at  a  period  when  it  becomes  scarce  worth  the 
keeping!     Is  it  that  nature,  attentive  to  the  preserva- 
tion of  mankind,  increases  our  wishes  to  live,  while  she 
lessens  our  enjoyments  ;  and,  as  she  robs  the  senses  of 
every  pleasure,  equips  imagination  in  the  spoil !     Life 
would  be  insupportable  to  an  old  man,  who,  loaded 
with  infirmities,  feared  death  no  more  than  when  in 
the  vigour  of  manhood  :  the  numberless  calamities  of 
decaying  nature,  and  the  consciousness  of  surviving 
every  pleasure,  would  at  once  induce  him,  with  his 
own  hand,  to  terminate  the  scene  of  misery  :  but  hap- 
pily the  contempt  of  death  forsakes  him  at  a  time  when 
it  could  only  be  prejudicial ;  and  life  acquires  an  ima- 
ginary value  in  proportion  as  its  real  value  is  no  more. 
Our  attachment  to  every  object  around  us  increases, 
in  general,  from  the  length  of  our  acquaintance  with 
it.     '  I  would  not  choose,'  says  a  French  philosopher, 
'  to  see  an  old  post  pulled  up  with  which  I  had  been 
long  acquainted.'    A  mind  long  habituated  to  a  certain 
set  of  objects,  insensibly  becomes  fond  of  seeing  them  ; 
visits  them  from  habit,  and  parts  from  them  with  re- 
luctance :  from  hence  proceeds  the  avarice  of  the  old 
in  every  kind  of  possession  ;  they  love  the  world  and 
all  that  it  produces;  ihey  love  life  and  all  its  advan- 
tages ;  not  because  it  gives  them  pleasure,  but  becu-»«e 
they  have  known  it  long. 

Chinvang  the  Chaste,  asctndir.g  the  throne  of 
China,  commanded  that  all  who  were  unjustly  de- 
tained in  prison,  during  the  preceding  reigns,  should 
be  set  free.  Among  the  number  who  came  to  thank 
"  their  deliverer  on  this  occasion,  there  appeared  a  ma- 
jestic old  man,  who,  falling  at  the  emperor's  feet, 
addressed  him  as  follows  :  '  Great  father  of  China 
behold  a  wretch,  now  eighty-five  years  old,  who  was 


312  ESSAYS. 

shut  up  in  a  dungeon  at  the  age  of  twenty-two.  I 
was  imprisoned,  though  a  stranger  to  crime,  or  without 
being  even  confronted  by  my  accusers.  I  have  now 
lived  in  solitude  and  darkness  for  more  than  sixty 
years,  and  am  grown  familiar  with  distress.  As  yet 
dazzled  with  the  splendour  of  that  sun  to  which  you 
have  restored  me,  I  have  been  wandering  the  streets 
to  find  out  some  friend  that  would  assist,  o°r  relieve,  or 
remember  me ;  but  my  friends,  my  family,  and  rela- 
tions, are  all  dead,  and  I  am  forgotten.  Permit  me 
then,  O  Chinvang,  to  wear  out  the  wretched  remains 
of  life  in  my  former  prison  ;  the  walls  of  my  dungeon 
are  to  me  more  pleasing  than  the  most  splendid  palace: 
I  have  not  long  to  live,  and  shall  be  unhappy  except 
I  spend  the  rest  of  my  days  where  my  youth  was 
passed,  in  that  prison  from  whence  you  were  pleased 
to  release  me.' 

The  old  man's  passion  for  confinement  is  similar  to 
that  we  all  have  for  life.  We  are  habituated  to  the 
prison  ;  we  look  round  with  discontent,  are  displeased 
with  the  abode,  and  yet  the  length  of  our  captivity 
only  increases  our  fondness  for  the  cell.  The  trees 
we  have  planted,  the  houses  we  have  built,  or  the 
posterity  we  have  begotten,  all  serve  to  bind  us  closer 
to  the  earth,  and  imbitter  our  parting.  Life  sues  the 
young  like  a  new  acquaintance ;  the  companion,  as 
yet  unexhausted,  is  at  once  instructive  and  amusing  ; 
its  company  pleases;  yet,  for  all  this,  it  is  but  little 
regarded.  To  us,  who  are  declined  in  years,  life 
appears  like  an  old  friend  ;  its  jests  have  been  antici- 
pated in  former  conversation  ;  it  has  no  new  story  to 
make  us  smile,  no  new  improvement  with  which  to 
surprise  ;  yet  still  we  love  it ;  destitute  of  every  enjoy- 
ment, still  we  love  it ;  husband  the  wasting  treasure 
with  increasing  frugality,  and  feel  all  the  poignancy  of 
anguish  in  the  fatal  separation. 

Sir  Philip  Mordaunt  was  young,  beautiful,  sincere, 
brave— an  Englishman.  He  had  a  complete  fortune 
of  his  own,  and  the  love  of  the  king  his  master,  which 
was  equivalent  to  riches.    Life  opened  all  her  treasures 


ESSAYS.  313 

before  him,  and  promised  a  long  succession  of  future 
happiness.  He  came,  tasted  of  the  entertainment,  but 
was  disgusted  even  at  the  beginning;.  He  professed 
an  aversion  to  living  ;  was  tired  of  walking  round  the 
same  circle;  had  tried  every  enjoyment,  and  found 
them  all  grow  weaker  at  every  repetition.  '  If  life  be, 
in  youth,  so  displeasing,'  cried  he  to  himself,  '  what 
will  it  appeal  when  age  comes  on  1  If  it  be  at  present 
indifferent,  sure  it  will  then  be  execrable.'  This 
thought  imbittered  every  reflection  ;  till,  at  last,  with 
all  the  serenity  of  perverted  reason,  be  ended  the  de- 
bate with  a  pistol !  Had  this  self-deluded  man  been 
apprized,  that  existence  grows  more  desirable  to  us 
the  longer  we  exist,  he  would  then  have  faced  old  age 
without  shrinking  ;  he  would  have  boldly  dared  to 
live ;  and  serve  that  society,  by  his  future  assiduity, 
which  he  basely  injured  by  his  desertion. 


ON  THE  LADIES'  PASSION  FOR  LEVELLING 
ALL  DISTINCTION  OF  DRESS. 

Foreigners  observe  that  there  are  no  ladies  in  the 
world  more  beautiful,  or  more  ill-dressed,  than  those 
of  England.  Our  country-women  have  been  com- 
pared to  those  pictures,  where  the  face  is  the  work  of 
a  Raphael,  but  the  draperies  thrown  out  by  some 
empty  pretender,  destitute  of  taste,  and  entirely  unac- 
quainted with  design. 

If  I  were  a  poet,  I  might  observe,  on  this  occasion, 
that  so  much  beauty,  set  off  with  all  the  advantages 
of  diess,  would  be  too  powerful  an  antagonist  for  the 
opposite  sex  ;  and  therefore  it  was  wisely  ordered  th?t 
our  ladies  should  want  taste,  lest  their  admirers  should 
entirely  want  reason. 

But  to  confess  a  truth,  I  do  not  find  they  have 
greater  aversion  to  fine  clothes  than  the  women  of  any 
other  country  whatsoever.  I  cannot  fancy  that  a  shop- 
keeper's wife  in  Cheapside  has  a  greater  tenderness 
for  the  fortune  of  her  husband,  than  a  citizen's  wife  it) 
P 


— ll 


3Ii  ESSAYS. 

Parts  ;  or  that  miss  in  a  boarding-school  is  more  an 
economist  in  dress  than  mademoiselle  in  a  nunnery. 

Although  Paris  may  be  accounted  the  soil  in  which 
almost  every  fashion  takes  its  rise,  its  influence  is  never 
so  general  there  as  with  us.  They  study  there  the 
happy  method  of  uniting  grace  and  fashion,  and  never 
excuse  a  woman  for  being  awkwardly  dressed,  by  say- 
ing her  clothes  are  in  the  mode.  A  French  woman  is 
a  perfect  architect  in  dress ;  she  never,  with  Gothic 
ignorance,  mixes  the  orders ;  she  never  tricks  out  a 
squabby  Doric  shape  with  Corinthian  finery  ;  or,  to 
speak  without  metaphor,  she  conforms  to  general 
fashion  only  when  it  happens  not  to  be  repugnant  to 
private  beauty. 

The  English  ladies,  on  the  contrary,  seem  to  have 
no  other  standard  of  grace  but  the  run  of  the  town. 
If  fashion  gives  the  word,  every  distinction  of  beauty, 
complexion,  or  stature,  ceases.  Sweeping  trains,  Prus- 
sian bonnets,  and  trollopees,  as  like  each  other  as  if 
cut  from  the  same  piece,  level  all  to  one  standard. 
The  Mall,  the  gardens,  and  playhouses,  are  filled  with 
ladies  in  uniform  ;  and  their  whole  appearance  shews 
as  little  variety  of  taste  as  if  their  clothes  were  bespoke 
by  the  colonel  of  a  marching  regiment,  or  fancied  by 
the  artist  who  dresses  the  three  battalions  of  guards. 

But  not  only  the  ladies  of  every  shape  and  com- 
plexion, but  of  every  age  too,  are  possessed  of  this 
unaccountable  passion  for  levelling  all  distinction  in 
dress.  The  lady  of  no  quality  travels  first  behind  the 
lady  of  some  quality  ;  and  a  woman  of  sixty  is  as 
gaudy  as  her  grand-daughter.  A  friend  of  mine,  a 
good-natured  old  man,  amused  me  the  other  day  with 
an  account  of  his  journey  to  the  Mall.  It  seems,  in 
his  walk  thither,  he,  for  some  time,  followed  a  lady, 
who,  as  he  thought,  by  her  dress,  was  a  girl  of  fifteen. 
It  was  airy,  elegant,  and  youthful.  My  old  friend 
had  called  up  all  his  poetry  on  this  occasion,  and 
fancied  twenty  Cupids  prepared  for  execution  in  every 
folding  of  her  white  negligee.  He  had  prepared  hJ9 
imagination  for  an  angel's  face ;  but  what  was  his 


ESSAYS.  315 

mortification  to  find  that  the  imaginary  goddess  was 
no  other  than  his  cousin  Hannah,  some  years  older 
than  himself. 

But  to  give  it  in  his  own  words  :  '  After  the  trans- 
ports of  our  first  salute,'  said  he,  '  were  over,  I  could 
not  avoid  running  my  eye  over  her  whole  appearance. 
Her  gown  was  of  cambric,  cut  short  before,  in  order 
to  discover  a  high-heeled  shoe,  which  was  buckled 
almost  at  the  toe.  Her  cap  consisted  of  a  few  bits  of 
cambric,  and  flowers  of  painted  paper  stuck  on  one 
side  of  her  head.  Her  bosom,  that  had  felt  no  hand 
but  the  hand  of  time  these  twenty  years,  rose,  suing 
to  be  pressed.  I  could,  indeed,  have  wished  her  more 
than  a  handkerchief  of  Paris  net  to  shade  her  beauties  ; 
for,  as  Tasso  says  of  the  rose-bud,  '  Quanto  si  nostra 
men,  tanto  e  piu  bella.'  A  female  breast  is  generally 
thought  most  beautiful  as  it  is  more  sparingly  dis- 
covered. 

'  As  my  cousin  had  not  put  on  all  this  finery  for 
nothing,  she  was  at  that  time  sallying  out  to  the  Park, 
where  1  had  overtaken  her.  Perceiving,  however,  that 
I  had  on  my  best  wig,  she  offered,  if  I  would  squire 
her  there,  to  send  home  the  footman.  Though  1  trem- 
bled for  our  reception  in  public,  yet  I  could  not,  with 
any  civility,  refuse  ;  so,  to  be  as  gallant  as  possible,  I 
took  her  hand  in  my  arm,  and  thus  we  marched  on 
together. 

*  When  we  made  our  entry  at  the  Park,  two  anti- 
quated figures,  so  polite  and  so  tender,  soon  attracted 
the  eyes  of  the  eompany.  As  we  made  our  way  among 
crowds  who  were  out  to  shew  their  finery  as  well  as 
we,  wherever  we  came,  I  perceived  we  brought  good- 
humour  with  us.  The  polite  could  not  forbear  smiling, 
and  the  vulgar  burst  o-ut  into  a  horse-laugh,  at  our 
grotesque  figures.  Cousin  Hannah,  who  was  perfectly 
conscious  of  the  rectitude  of  her  own  appearance,  attri- 
buted all  this  mirth  to  the  oddity  of  mine;  while  I  as 
cordially  placed  the  whole  to  her  account.  I 
from  being  two  of  the  best-natured  creatures  alive, 
before  we  got  half  way  up  the  Mall,  we  both  I 


315 


ESSA.YS. 


to  grow  peevisr,  and,  like  two  mice  on  a  string,  en- 
deavoured to  revenge  the  impertinence  of  others  upon 
ourselves.  "  I  am  amazed,  cousin  Jeffery, '  says  miss, 
"  that  1  can  never  get  you  to  dress  like  a  Christian.  I 
knew  we  should  have  the  eyes  of  the  Paik  upon  us, 
with  your  great  wig  so  frizzled,  and  yet  so  beggarly, 
aad  your  monstrous  muff.  I  hate  those  odious  muffs  " 
I  could  have  patiently  borne  a  criticism  on  all  the 
rest  of  my  equipage ;  but  as  I  had  always  a  peculiar 
veneration  foi  my  muff,  I  could  not  forbear  being 
piq-ued  a  little  ;  and,  throwing  my  eyes  with  a  spiteful 
air  on  her  bosom,  "  I  could  heartily  wish,  madam," 
replied  I,  "  that,  for  your  sake,  my  muff  was  cut  into 
a  tippet." 

'  As  my  cousin,  by  this  time,  was  grown  heartily 
ashamed  of  her  gentleman-usher,  and  as  1  was  never 
very  fond  of  any  kind  of  exhibition  myself,  it  was 
mutually  agreed  to  retire  for  a  while  to  one  of  the  seats, 
and,  from  that  retreat,  remark  on  others  as  freely  as 
they  had  remarked  on  us. 

'  When  seated,  we  continued  silent  for  some  time, 
employed  in  very  different  speculations.  I  regarded 
the  whole  company,  now  passing  in  review  before  me, 
as  drawn  out  merely  for  my  amusement.  For  my 
entertainment  the  beauty  had,  all  that  morning,  been 
improving  her  char-ms  :  the  beau  had  put  on  lace,  and 
the  young  doctor  a  big  wig,  merely  to  please  me.  But 
quite  different  were  the  sentiments  of  cousin  Hannah  : 
she  regarded  every  well-dressed  woman  as  a  victorious 
rival ;  hated  every  face  that  seemed  dressed  in  good- 
humour,  or  wore  the  appearance  of  greater  happiness 
than  her  own.  I  perceived  her  uneasiness,  and  at- 
tempted to  lessen  it,  by  observing  that  there  was  no 
company  in  the  Park  to-day.  To  this  she  readily 
assented  ;  "  And  yet,"  says  she,  "  it  is  full  enough  of 
scrubs  of  one  kind  or  another."  My  smiling  at  this 
observation  gave  her  spirits  to  pursue  the  bent  of  her 
inclination,  and  now  she  began  to  exhibit  her  skill  in 
secret  history,  as  she  found  me  disposed  to  listen. 
*•  Observe," says  she  to  me, "  that  old  woman  in  tawdry 


KSSAYS.  317 

silk,  ami  dressed  out  beyond  the  fashion.  That  is  Miss 
Biddy  Evergreen.  Miss  Biddy,  it  seems,  has  money  ; 
and  as  she  considers  that  money  was  never  so  scarce 
as  it  is  now,  she  seems  tesolved  to  keep  what  she  has 
to  herself.  She  is  ugly  enough,  you  see;  yet,  I  assure 
you,  she  has  refused  several  offers,  to  my  knowledge, 
within  this  twelvemonth.  Let  me  see,  three  gentle- 
men from  Ireland,  who  study  the  law,  two  waitin" 
captains,  her  doctor,  and  a  Scotch  preacher  who  had 
liked  to  have  carried  her  off.  All  her  time  is  passed 
between  sickness  and  finery.  Thus  she  spends  tire 
whole  week  in  a  close  chamber,  with  no  other  com- 
pany but  her  monkey,  her  apothecary,  and  cat ;  and 
comes  dressed  out  to  the  Park  every  Sunday,  to  shew 
her  airs,  to  get  new  lovers,  to  catch  a  new  cold,  and 
to  make  new  work  for  the  doctor. 

'"There  goes  Mrs.  Roundabout,  I  mean  the  fat 
lady  in  the  lustring  trollopee.  Between  you  and  I, 
she  is  but  a  cutler's  wife.  See  how  she's  dressed,  as 
fine  as  hands  and  pins  can  make  her,  while  her  two 
marriageable  daughters,  like  hunters  in  stuff  gowns, 
are  now  taking  sixpenny-worth  of  tea  at  the  W Kite- 
conduit  house.  Odious  puss,  how  she  waddles  along, 
with  her  train  two  yards  behind  her  !  She  puts  me  m 
mind  of  my  lord  Bantam's  Indian  sheep,  which  are 
obliged  to  have  their  monstrous  tails  trundled  along  in 
a  go-cart.  For  all  her  airs,  it  goes  to  her  husband's 
heart  to  see  four  yards  of  good  lu.-tring  wearing  against 
the  ground,  like  one  of  his  knives  on  a  grindstone.  To 
speak  my  mind,  cousin  Jeffery,  I  never  liked  those  tails  ; 
for  suppose  a  young  fellow  should  be  rude,  and  the 
lady  should  offer  to  step  back  in  the  fright,  instead  of 
retiring,  she  treads  upon  her  train,  and  falls  fairly  on 
her  back  ;  and  then  you  know,  cousin, — her  clothes 
may  be  spoiled. 

'  "  Ah  !  Miss  Mazzard  !  I  knew  we  should  not  miss 
her  in  the  Park  ;  she  in  the  monstrous  Prussian  bonnet. 
Miss,  though  so  very  fine,  was  bred  a  milliner  ;  and 
might  have  had  some  custom  if  she  had  minded  her 
business  ;  but  the  girl  was  fond  of  finery,  and,  instead 


318 


ESSAYS. 


of  dressing  her  customers,  laid  out  all  her  goods  in 
adorning  herself.  Every  new  gown  she  put  on  im- 
paired her  credit ;  she  still,  however,  went  on,  improv- 
ing her  appearance  and  lessening  her  little  fortune,  and 
is  now,  you  see,  become  a  belle  and  a  bankrupt." 

'  My  cousin  was  proceeding  in  her  remarks,  which 
were  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  the  very  lady  she 
had  been  so  freely  describing.  Miss  had  perceived  her 
at  a  distance,  and  approached  o  salute  her.  I  found, 
by  the  warmth  of  the  two  ladies'  protestations,  that 
they  had  been  long  intimate,  esteemed  friends  and 
acquaintance.  Both  were  so  pleased  at  this  happy 
rencounter,  that  they  were  resolved  not  to  part  for  the 
day.  So  we  all  crossed  the  Park  together,  and  I  saw 
them  into  a  hackney-coach  at  St.  James's.' 


ASEM;  AN  EASTERN  TALE: 

OR,  THE  WISDOM  OF  PROVIDENCE  IN  THE  MORAL 
GOVERNMENT  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Where  Tauris  lifts  his  head  above  the  storm,  and 
presents  nothing  to  the  sight  of  the  distant  traveller, 
but  a  prospect  of  nodding  rocks,  falling  torrents,  and 
all  the  variety  of  tremendous  nature;  on  the  bleak 
bosom  of  this  frightful  mountain,  secluded  from  so- 
ciety, and  detesting  the  ways  of  men,  lived  Asem  the 
man-hater. 

Asem  had  spent  his  youth  with  men  ;  had  shared  in 
their  amusements ;  and  had  been  taught  to  love  his 
fellow-creatures  with  the  most  ardent  affection  ;  but, 
from  the  tenderness  of  his  disposition,  he  exhausted  all 
his  fortune  in  relieving  the  wants  of  the  distressed. 
The  petitioner  never  sued  in  vain  ;  the  weary  traveller 
never  passed  his  door ;  he  only  desisted  from  doing 
good  when  he  had  no  longer  the  power  of  relieving. 

From  a  fortune  thus  spent  in  benevolence  he  ex- 
pected a  grateful  return  from  those  he  had  formerly 
relieved ;  and  made  his  application  with  confidence  of 


ESSAYS.  319 

redress  :  the  ungrateful  world  soon  grew  weary  of  his 
importunity  ;  for  pity  is  but  a  short-lived  passion.  He 
soon,  therefore,  begSm.  to  view  mankind  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent light  from  that  in  which  he  had  before  beheld 
them  :  he  perceived  a  thousand  vices  he  had  never 
before  suspected  to  exist :  wherever  he  turned,  ingra- 
titude, dissimulation,  and  treachery,  contributed  to 
increase  his  detestation  of  them.  Resolved,  therefore, 
to  continue  no  longer  in  a  world  which  he  hated,  and 
which  repaid  his  detestation  with  contempt,  he  retired 
to  this  region  of  sterility,  in  order  to  brood  over  his 
resentment  in  solitude,  and  converse  with  the  only 
honest  heart  he  knew ;  namely,  his  own. 

A  cave  was  his  only  shelter  from  the  inclemency 
of  the  weather  ;  fruits,  gathered  with  difficulty  from 
t'he  mountain's  side,  his  only  food  ;  and  his  drink  was 
fetched  with  danger  and  toil  from  the  headlong  tor- 
rent. In  this  manner  he  lived,  sequestered  from  so- 
ciety, passing  the  hours  in  meditation,  and  sometimes 
exulting  that  he  was  able  to  live  independently  of  his 
fellow-creatures. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  an  extensive  lake  dis- 
played its  glassy  bosom,  reflecting  on  its  broad  surface 
the  impending  horrors  of  the  mountain.  To  this  ca- 
pacious mirror  he  would  sometimes  descend,  and, 
reclining  on  its  steep  banks,  cast  an  eager  look  on  the 
smooth  expanse  that  lay  before  him.  '  How  beautiful,' 
he  often  cried,  '  is  nature !  how  lovely,  even  in  her 
wildest  scenes  !  How  finely  contrasted  is  the  level 
plain  that  lies  beneath  me,  with  yon  awful  pile  that 
hides  its  tremendous  head  in  clouds !  But  the  beauty 
of  these  scenes  is  no  way  comparable  with  their 
utility ;  from  hence  a  hundred  rivers  are  supplied, 
which  distribute  health  and  verdure  to  the  various 
countries  through  which  they  flow.  Every  part  of 
the  universe  is  beautiful,  just,  and  wise,  but  man  : 
vile  man  is  a  solecism  in  nature,  the  only  monster  in 
the  creation.  Tempests  and  whirlwinds  have  their 
use  ;  but  vicious  ungrateful  man  is  a  blot  in  the  fair 
page  of  universal  beauty.     Why  was  I  born  of  that 


320  ESSAYS. 

detested  species,  whose  vices  are  almost  a  reproach  to 
the  wisdom  of  the  Divine  Creator  1  Were  men  en- 
tirely free  from  vice,  all  would  be  uniformity,  harmony, 
and  order.  A  world  of  moral  rectitude  should  be  the 
result  of  a  perfectly  moral  agent.  Why,  why,  then, 
O  Alia !  must  I  be  thus  confined  in  darkness,  doubt, 
and  despair  ?' 

Just  as  he  uttered  the  word  despair,  he  was  going  to 
plunge  into  the  lake  beneath  him,  at  once  to  satisfy 
his  doubts,  and  put  a  period  to  his  anxiety  ;  when  he 
perceived  a  most  majestic  being  walking  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  water,  and  approaching  the  bank  on  which 
he  stood.  So  unexpected  an  object  at  once  checked 
his  purpose;  he  stopped,  contemplated,  and  fancied 
he  saw  something  awful  and  divine  in  his  aspect. 

*  Son  of  Adam,'  cried  the  genius,  '  stop  thy  rash 
purpose  ;  the  Father  of  the  Faithful  has  seen  thy  jus- 
tice, thy  integrity,  thy  miseries ;  and  hath  sent  me  to 
afford  and  administer  relief.  Give  me  thine  hand,  and 
follow,  without  trembling,  wherever  I  shall  lead  ;  in 
me  behold  the  genius  of  conviction,  kept  by  the  great 
prophet,  to  turn  from  their  errors  those  who  go  astray, 
not  from  curiosity,  but  a  rectitude  of  intention.  Fol- 
low me  and  be  wise.' 

Asem  immediately  descended  upon  the  lake,  and 
his  guide  conducted  him  along  the  surface  of  the 
water  ;  till,  coming  near  the  centre  of  the  lake,  they 
both  began  to  sink ;  the  waters  closed  over  their 
heads  ;  they  descended  several  hundred  fathoms,  till 
Asem,  just  ready  to  give  up  his  life  as  inevitably  lost, 
found  himself  with  his  celestial  guide  in  another  world, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  waters,  where  human  foot  had 
never  trod  before.  His  astonishment  was  beyond 
description,  when  he  saw  a  sun  like  that  he  had  left,  a 
serene  sky  over  his  head,  and  blooming  verdure  under 
his  feet. 

'  I  plainly  perceive  your  amazement,'  said  the 
genius  ;  '  but  suspend  it  for  a  while.  This  world  was 
formed  by  Alia,  at  the  request,  and  under  the  inspec- 
tion, of  our  great  prophet ;  who  once  entertainea  thr 


J 


ESSAYS.  321 

same  doubts  which  filled  your  mind  when  I  found  you, 
and  from  the  consequence  of  which  you  were  so  lately 
rescued.  The  rational  inhabitants  of  this  world  are 
formed  agreeable  to  your  own  ideas  ;  they  are  abso- 
lutely without  vice.  In  other  respects  it  resembles 
your  earth  ;  but  differs  from  it  in  being  wholly  in- 
habited by  men  who  never  do  wrong.  If  you  find  this 
world  more  agreeable  than  that  you  so  lately  left,  you 
have  free  permission  to  spend  the  remainder  of  your 
days  in  it ;  but  permit  me,  for  some  time,  to  attend 
you,  that  I  may  silence  your  doubts,  and  make  you 
better  acquainted  with  your  company  and  your  new 
habitation.' 

'  A  world  without  vice  !  Rational  beings  without 
immorality  !'  cried  Asem,  in  a  rapture  ;  '  I  thank 
thee,  O  Alia,  who  hast  at  length  heard  my  petitions : 
this,  this  indeed  will  produce  happiness,  ecstasy,  and 
ease.  O  for  an  immortality,  to  spend  it  among  men 
who  are  incapable  of  ingratitude,  injustice,  fraud,  vio- 
lence, and  a  thousand  other  crimes  that  render  society 
miserable  !' 

'  Cease  thine  acclamations,'  replied  the  genius. 
'  Look  around  thee  ;  reflect  on  every  object  and 
action  before  us,  and  communicate  to  me  the  result 
of  thine  observations.  Lead  wherever  you  think 
proper,  I  shall  be  your  attendant  and  instructor.' 
Asem  and  his  companion  travelled  on  in  silence  for 
some  time,  the  former  being  entirely  lost  in  astonish- 
ment ;  but,  at  last,  recovering  his  former  serenity,  he 
could  not  help  observing  that  the  face  of  the  country 
bore  a  near  resemblance  to  that  he  had  left,  except 
that  this  subterranean  world  still  seemed  to  retain  its 
primeval  wildness.  _    - 

'  Here,'  cried  Asem,  '  I  perceive  animals  of  prey, 
and  others  that  seem  only  designed  for  their  subsis- 
tence ;  it  is  the  very  same  in  the  world  over  our  heads. 
But  had  1  been  permitted  to  instruct  our  prophet,  I 
would  have  removed  this  defect,  and  formed  no  vora- 
cious or  destructive  animals,  which  only  prey  on  the 
Other  parts  of  the  creation.' — '  Your  tenderness  for  in- 
P2 


322 


ESSAYS. 


ferior  animals,  is,  I  find,  remarkable,'  said  the  genius 
smiling.  '  But,  with  regard  to  meaner  creatures,  this 
world  exactly  resembles  the  other ;  and,  indeed,  foi 
obvious  reasons :  for  the  earth  can  support  a  more 
considerable  number  of  animals,  by  their  thus  becom- 
ing food  for  each  other,  than  if  they  had  lived  entirely 
on  her  vegetable  productions.  So  that  animals  of 
different  natures  thus  formed,  instead  of  lessening 
their  multitudes,  subsist  in  the  greatest  number  pos- 
sible. But  let  us  hasten  on  to  the  inhabited  country 
before  us,  and  see  what  that  offers  for  instruction.' 

They  soon  gained  the  utmost  verge  of  the  forest, 
and  entered  the  country  inhabited  by  men  without 
vice ;  and  Asem  anticipated  ia  idea  the  rational  de- 
light he  hoped  to  experience  in  such  an  innocent 
society.  But  they  had  scarce  left  the  confines  of  the 
wood,  when  they  beheld  one  of  the  inhabitants  flyino- 
with  hasty  steps,  and  terror  in  his  countenance,  from 
an  army  of  squirrels  that  closely  pursued  him.  '  Hea- 
vens !'  cried  Asem,  '  why  does  he  fly  ?  What  can 
he  fear  from  animals  so  contemptible  ¥  He  had  scarce 
spoken,  when  he  perceived  two  dogs  pursuing  another 
of  the  human  species,  who,  with  equal  terror  and 
haste,  attempted  to  avoid  them.  '  This,'  cried  Asem 
to  his  guide,  '  is  truly  surprising ;  nor  can  I  conceive 
the  reason  for  so  strange  an  action.' — '  Every  species 
of  animals,'  replied  the  genius,  '  has  of  late  grown 
very  powerful  in  this  country  ;  for  the  inhabitants,  at 
first,  thinking  it  unjust  to  use  either  fraud  or  force  in 
destroying  them,  they  have  insensibly  increased,  and 
now  frequently  ravage  their  harmless  frontiers.' — 
'.But  they  should  have  been  destioyed,'  cried  Asem  ; 
'  you  see  the  consequent  of  such  neglect.' — '  Where 
is  then  that  tenderness  you  so  lately  expressed  for 
subordinate  animals'!'  replied  the  genius,  smiling: 
*  you  seem  to  have  forgot  that  branch  of  justice.' — '  I 
must  acknowledge  my  mistake,'  returned  Asem  ;  '  I 
am  now  convinced  that  we  must  be  guilty  of  tyranny 
and  injustice  to  the  brute  creatiou,  if  we  would  enjoy 
the  world  ourselves.    But  let  us  no  longer  observe  the 


ESSAYS,  323 

duty  of  man  to  these  irrational  creatures,  but  survey 
their  connexions  with  one  another.' 

As  they  walked  farther  up  the  country,  the  more 
he  was  surprised  to  see  no  vestiges  of  handsome  houses, 
no  cities,   nor  any  mark  of  elegant  design.     His  con- 
ductor, perceiving  his  surprise,  observed  that  the  in- 
habitants of  this  new  world  were  perfectly   content 
with    their   ancient   simplicity ;    each    had    a   house, 
which,   though   homelv,  was  sufficient   to    lodge  his 
little  family  ;    they  were   too   good    to  build   houses 
which  could  only  increase  their  own  pride,   and  the 
envy  of  the  spectator ;  what  they  built  was  for   con- 
venience,  and   not  for  show.     '  At  least,   then,'  said 
Asem,    '  they   have    neither  architects,    painters,  nor 
statuaries,   in   their  society  ;  but  these  are  idle  arts, 
and  m;iv  be  spared.     However,  before  I  spend  much 
more  tune  here,  you   shall  have  my  thanks  for  intro- 
ducing  me    into  the  society   of  some  of  their  wisest 
men  :  there  is  scarce  any  pleasure  to  me  equal  to  a 
refined  conversation  ;  there  is  nothing  of  which  I  am 
so  much  enamoured  as  wisdom.'—'  Wisdom  !'  replied 
his  instructor  :   '  how  ridiculous  !   We  have  no  wisdom 
here,  for  we  have  no  occasion  for  it ;  true  wisdom  is 
only  a  knovUed^e  of  our  own  duty,  and  the  duty  of 
others  to  us  ;  but  of  what  use  is  such  wisdom  here? 
Each  intuitively  performs  what  is  right  in  himself,  and 
expects  the   same   from  others.      If  by  wisdom   you 
should  mean  vain  curiosity,  and  empty  speculation,  as 
such  pleasures  have  their  origin  in  vanitv,  luxury,  or 
avarice,  we  are  too  good  to  pursue  them.' — '  All  this 
maybe  right,' says  Asem  ;  '  but,  methinks  1  observe  a 
solitary  disposition   prevail  among  the   people  ;  each 
family  keeps  separately   within  their   own   precincts, 
without  society,  or  without  intercourse.' — '  That,  in- 
deed,  is  true,'  replied  the   other  ;  '  here  is  no   esta- 
blished society,  nor  should  there  be  any:  all  societies 
are  made  either  through  fear  or  friendship  :  the  people 
we  are  among  are  too  good  to  fear  each  other  ;  and 
there   are   no  motives  to  private   friendship,   where  all 
are   equally    meritorious.' — '  Well,     then,'    said    the 


324  ESSAYS. 

sceptic,  '  as  1  am  to  spend  my  time  here,  if  I  am  to 
have  neither  the  polite  arts,  nor  wisdom,  nor  friend- 
ship, in  such  a  world,  I  should  be  glad,  at  least,  of  an 
easy  companion,  who  may  tell  me  his  thoughts,  and 
to  whom  I  may  communicate  mine.' — '  And  to  what 
purpose  should  either  do  this V  says  the  genius: 
'  flattery  or  curiosity  are  vicious  motives,  and  never 
allowed  of  here  ;  and  wisdom  is  out  of  the  question.' 

-  Still,  however,'  said  Asem,  '  the  inhabitants  must 
be  happy  ;  each  is  contented  with  his  own  possessions, 
nor  avariciously  endeavours  to  heap  up  more  than  is 
necessary  for  his  own  subsistence ;  each  has  therefore 
leisure  for  pitying  those  that  stand  in  need  of  his  com- 
passion.'    He  had  scarce  spoken  when  his  ears  were 
assaulted  with  the  lamentations  of  a  wretch  who  sat 
by  the  way-side,  and,  in  the  most  deplorable  distress, 
seemed  gently  to  murmur  at  his  own  misery.     Asem 
immediately  ran  to  his  relief,  and  found  him  in  the  last 
stage  of  a  consumption.     '  Strange,'  cried  the  son  of 
Adam,  '  that  men  who  are  free  from  vice  should  thus 
suffer  so  much  misery  without  relief!' — '  Be  not  sur- 
prised,' said  the  wretch,  who  was  dying  ;  '  would  it 
not  be  the  utmost  injustice  for  beings,  who  have  only 
just  sufficient  to  support  themselves,  and  are  content 
with  a  bare  subsistence,  to  take  it    from  their  own 
mouths  to  put  it  into  mine  1  They  never  are  possessed 
of  a  single  meal  more  than  is  necessary  ;  and  what  is 
barely  necessary  cannot  be  dispensed  with.' — '  They 
should  have  been  supplied  with  more  than  is  neces- 
sary,' cried   Asem-;  '  and   yet  I   contradict  my  own 
opinion  but  a  moment  before  :  all  is  doubt,  perplexity, 
and  confusion.     Even  the  want  of  ingratitude  is  no 
virtue  here,   since  they  never  receive  a  favour.     They 
have,   however,   another  excellence  yet  behind ;  the 
love  of  their  country  is  still,  I  hope,  one  of  their  dar- 
ling virtues.' — '  Peace,  Asem,'  replied  the  guardian, 
with  a   countenance  not  less  severe  than  beautiful, 
'  nor  forfeit  all  thy  pretensions  to  wisdom  ;  the  same 
selfish  motives  by  which  we  prefer  our  own  interest 
to  that  of  others,  induce  us  to  regard  our  country  pre- 


ESSAYS.'  325 

ferable  to  that  of  another.  Nothing  less  than  univer- 
sal benevolence  is  free  from  vice,  and  that  you  see  is 
practised  here.' — '  Strange  !'  cries  the  disappointed 
pilgrim,  in  an  agony  of  distress  ;  '  what  sort  of  a 
world  am  I  now  introduced  to  1  There  is  scarce  a 
single  virtue,  hut  that  of  temperance,  which  they  prac- 
tise ;  and  in  that  they  are  no  way  superior  to  the  brute 
creation.  There  is  scarce  an  amusement  which  they 
enjoy  ;  fortitude,  liberality,  friendship,  wisdom,  con- 
versation, and  love  of  country,  are  all  virtues  entirely 
unknown  here  ;  thus  it  seems,  that  to  be  unacquainted 
with  vice  is  not  to  know  virtue.  Take  me,  O  my 
genius,  back  to  that  very  world  which  I  have  de- 
spised ;  a  world  which  has  Alia  for  its  contriver,  is 
much  more  wisely  formed  than  that  which  has  been 
projected  by  Mahomet.  Ingratitude,  contempt,  and 
hatred,  I  can  now  suffer,  for  perhaps  I  have  deserved 
them.  When  I  arraigned  the  wisdom  of  Providence, 
I  only  shewed  my  own  ignorance  ;  henceforth  let  me 
keep  from  vice  myself,  and  pity  it  in  others.' 

lie  had  scarce  ended,  when  the  genius,  assuming 
an  air  of  terrible  complacency,  called  all  his  thunders 
around  him,  and  vanished  in  a  whirlwind.  Asem,  as- 
tonished at  the  terror  of  the  scene,  looked  for  his 
imaginary  world  ;  when,  casting  his  eyes  around,  he 
perceived  himself  in  the  very  situation,  and  in  the  very 
place,  where  he  first  began  to  repine  and  despair;  his 
right  foot  had  been  just  advanced  to  take  the  fatal 
plunge,  nor  had  it  been  yet  withdrawn  ;  so  instantly 
did  Providence  strike  the  series  of  truths  just  imprinted 
on  his  soul.  He  now  departed  from  the  water-side 
in  tranquillity,  and,  leaving  his  horrid  mansion,  tra- 
velled to  Segestan,  his  native  city  ;  where  lie  diligently 
applied  himself  to  commerce,  and  put  in  practice  that 
wisdom  he  had  learned  in  solitude.  The  frugality  of 
a  few  years  soon  produced  opulence  ;  the  number  of 
his  domestics  increased  ;  his  friends  came  to  him  from 
every  part  of  the  city,  nor  did  he  receive  them  with 
disdain  ;  and  a  youth  of  misery  was  concluded  with 
an  old  age  of  elegance,  affluence,  a  id  ease. 


ESSAYS. 


ON  THE  ENGLISH  CLERGY  AND 
POPULAR   PREACHERS. 

It  is  allowed  on  all  hands,  that  our  English  divines 
receive  a  more  liberal  education,  and  improve  that 
education  by  frequent  study,  more  than  any  others  of 
this  reverend  profession  in  Europe.  In  general,  also, 
it  may  be  observed,  that  a  greater  degree  of  gentility 
is  affixed  to  the  character  of  a  student  in  England 
than  elsewhere  ;  by  which  means  our  clergy  have  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  better  company  while  young, 
and  of  sooner  wearing  off  those  prejudices  which  they 
are  apt  to  imbibe  even  in  the  best-regulated  universi- 
ties, and  which  may  be  justly  termed  the  vulgar  er- 
rors of  the  wise. 

Yet,  with  all  these  advantages,  it  is  very  obvious, 
that  the  clergy  are  no  where  so  little  thought  of,  by 
the  populace,  as  here  ;  and,  though  our  divines  are 
foremost  with  respect  to  abilities,  yet  they  are  found 
last  in  the  effects  of  their  ministry;  the  vulgar,  in  ge- 
neral, appearing  no  way  impressed  with  a  sense  of 
religious  duty.  I  am  not  for  whining  at  the  depravity 
of  the  times,  or  for  endeavouring  to  paint  a  prospect 
more  gloomy  than  in  nature  ;  but  certain  it  is,  no 
person  who  has  travelled  will  contradict  me,  when  I 
aver,  that  the  lower  orders  of  mankind,  in  other  coun- 
tries, testify,  on  every  occasion,  the  profoundest  awe 
of  religion;  while  in  England  they  are  scarcely  awak- 
ened into  a  sense  of  its  duties,  even  in  circumstances 
of  the  greatest  distress. 

This  dissolute  and  fearless  conduct  foreigners  are 
apt  to  attribute  to  climate,  and  constitution  :  may  not 
the  vulgar  being  pretty  much  neglected  in  our  exhor- 
tations from  the  pulpit,  be  a  conspiring  cause?  Our 
divines  seldom  stoop  to  their  mean  capacities;  and 
they  who  want  instruction  most  find  least  in  our  reli- 
gious assemblies. 

Whatever  may  become  of  the  higher  orders  of  man- 
kind, who  are  generally  possessed  of  collateral  motives 
to  virtue,  the  vulgar  should  be  particularly  regarded, 


ESSAYS.'  327 

whose  behaviour  in  civil  life  is  totally  hinged  upon 
their  hopes  and  fears.  Those  who  constitute  the  basis 
of  the  great  fa-bric  of  society,  should  be  particularly 
regarded  ;  for,  in  policy,  as  architecture,  ruin  is  most 
fatal  when  it  begins  from  the  bottom. 

Men  of  real  sense  and  understanding  prefer  a  pru- 
dent mediocrity  to  a  precarious  popularity;  and,  fear- 
ing to  outdo  their  duty,  leave  it  half  done.  Their 
discourses  from  the  pulpit  are  generally  dry,  methodi- 
cal, and  unaffecting  :  delivered  with  the  most  insipid 
calmness ;  insomuch,  that  should  the  peaceful  preacher 
lift  his  head  over  the  cushion,  which  alone  he  seems  to 
address,  he  might  discover  his  audience,  instead  of  being 
awakened  to  remorse,  actually  sleeping  over  his  me- 
thodical and  laboured  composition. 

This  method  of  preaching  is,  however,  by  some  called 
an  address  to  reason,  and  not  to  the  passions ;  this  is 
styled  the  making  of  converts  from  conviction  ;  but 
such  are  indifferently  acquainted  with  human  nature, 
who  are  not  sensible  that  men  seldom  reason  about 
their  debaucheries  till  they  are  committed.  Reason 
is  but  a  weak  antagonist  when  headlong  passion  dic- 
tates ;  in  all  such  cases  we  should  arm  one  passion 
against  another  :  it  is  with  the  human  mind  as  in  na- 
ture ;  from  the  mixture  of  two  opposites,  the  result  is 
most  frequently  neutral  tranquillity.  Those  who  at- 
tempt to  reason  us  out  of  our  follies,  begin  at  the 
wrong  end,  since  tho  attempt  naturally  presupposes 
us  capable  of  reason  ;  but  to  be  made  capable  of  this, 
is  one  great  point  of  the  cure. 

There  are  but  few  talents  requisite  to  become  a 
popular  preacher;  for  the  people  are  easily  plc;i  ed, 
if  they  perceive  any  endeavours  in  the  orator  to  please 
them  ;  the  meanest  qualifications  will  work  this  effect, 
if  the  preacher  sincerely  sets  about  it.  Perhap9  little, 
indeed  very  little  more  is  required,  than  sincerity  and 
assurance  ;  and  a  becoming  sincerity  is  always  cer- 
tain of  producing  a  becoming  assurance.  '  Si  vis  me 
flere,  dolendum  est  primum  tibi  ipsi,'  is  so  tiite  a  quo- 
tation, that  it  almost  demands  an  apology  to  repeat  ltj 

f 


328  ESSAYS. 

yet  though  all  allow  the  justice  cf  the  remark,  how 
few  do  we  find  put  it  in  practice !  Our  orators,  with 
the  most  faulty  bashfulness,  seem  impressed  rather 
with  an  awe  of  their  audience,  than  with  a  just  respect 
for  fhe  truths  they  are  about  to  deliver :  they,  of  all 
professions,  seem  the  most  bashful,  who  have  the 
"greatest  right  to  glory  in  their  commission. 

The  French  preachers  generally  assume  all  that 
dignity  which  becomes  men  who  are  ambassadors  from 
Christ;  the  English  divines,  like  erroneous  envoys, 
seem  more  solicitous  not  to  offend  the  court  to  which 
they  are  sent,  than  to  drive  home  the  interests  of  their 
employer.  The  bishop  of  Massillon,  in  the  first  ser- 
mon he  ever  preached,  found  the  whole  audience, 
upon  his  getting  into  the  pulpit,  in  a  disposition  no 
way  favourable  to  his  intentions;  their  nods,  whispers, 
or  drowsy  behaviour* shewed  him  that  there  was  no 
great  profit  to  be  expected  from  his  sowing  in  a  soil  so 
improper ;  however,  he  soon  changed  the  disposition 
of  his  audience  by  his  manner  of  beginning.  •  If,' 
says  he,  *  a  cause,  the  most  important  that  could  be 
conceived,  were  to  be  tried  at  the  bar  before  qualified 
judges;  if  this  cause  interested  ourselves  in  particular; 
if  the  eyes  of  the  whole  kingdom  were  fixed  upon  the 
event ;  if  the  most  eminent  counsel  were  employed  on 
both  sides;  and  if  we  had  heard  from  our  infancy  of 
this  yet-undetermined  trial ;  would  you  not  all  sit  with 
due  attention,  and  warm  expectation,  to  the  pleadings 
on  each  side  1  Would  not  all  your  hopes  and  fears 
be  hinged  upon  the  final  decision  1  and  yet,  let  me 
tell  you,  you  have  this  moment  a  cause  of  much  greater 
importance  before  you;  a  cause  where  not  one  nation, 
but  all  the  world,  are  spectators ;  tried  not  before  a 
fallible  tribunal,  but  the  awful  throne  of  Heaven  ; 
where  not  your  temporal  and  transitory  interests  are 
the  subject  of  debate,  but  your  eternal  happiness  or 
misery;  where  the  cause  is  still  undetermined,  but, 
perhaps,  the  very  moment  I  am  speaking  may  fix  the 
irrevocable  decree  that  shall  last  for  ever :  and  yet, 
notwithstanding  all  this,  you  can  hardly  sit  with  pa- 


ESSAYS.  329 

tience  to  near  the  tidings  of  your  own  salvation ;  I 
plead  the  cause  of  Heaven,  and  yet  I  am  scarcely 
attended  to,'  &c. 

The  style,  the  abruptness  of  a  beginning  l;ke  this, 
in  the  closet  would  appear  absurd ;  but  in  the  pulpit 
it  is  attended  with  the  most  lasting  impressions  :  that 
style  which,  in  the  cioset,  might  justly  he  called  flimsy, 
seenrs  the  true  mode  of  eloquence  here.  I  never  read 
a  fine  composition  under  the  title  of  a  sermon,  that  I 
do  not  think  the  author  has  miscalled  his  piece  ;  for 
the  talents  to  be  used  in  writing  well  entirely  differ 
from  those  of  speaking  well.  The  qualifications  for 
speaking,  as  has  been  already  observed,  are  easily 
acquired  ;  they  are  accomplishments  which  may  be 
taken  up  by  every  candidate  who  will  be  at  the  pains 
of  stooping.  Impressed  with  a  sense  of  the  truths  he 
is  a'bou-t  to  deliver,  a  preacher  disregards  the  applause 
or  the  contempt  of  his  audience,  and  he  insensibly 
assumes  a  just  and  manly  sincerity.  With  this  talent 
alone  we  see  what  crowds  are  drawn  around  enthu- 
siasts, even  destitute  of  common  sense;  what  numbers 
converted  to  Christianity.  Folly  may  sometimes  set 
an  example  for  wisdom  to  practise ;  and  our  regular 
olivines  may  borrow  instruction  from  even  Methodists, 
who  go  their  circuits,  and  preach  priz«s  among  the 
populace.  Even  Whitfield  may  be  placed  as  a  model 
to  some  of  our  young  divines ;  let  them  join  to  their 
own  good  sense. his  earnest  maimer  of  delivery. 

It  will  be  perhaps  objected,  that  by  confining  the 
excellences  of  a  preacher  to  proper  assurance,  earnest- 
ness, and  openness  of  stylo,  I  nmke  the  qualifications 
too  trifling  for  estimation  ;  (hero  will  be  something 
called  oratory  brought  up  OB  this  occasion;  action, 
attitude,  grace,  elocution,  may  be  repeated  as  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  complete  the  character:  but  let 
us  not  be  deceived  ;  common  senst;  is  seldom  swayed 
by  fine  tones,  musical  periods,  just  attitudes,  or  the 
display  of  a  white  handkerchief;  aratorial  behaviour, 
except  in  very  aide  hands  indeed,  generally  skiks  into 
awkward  and  paltry  affectation. 


330  ESSAYS. 

It  must  be  observed,  however,  that  these  rules  are 
calculated  only  for  him  who  would  instruct  the  vul- 
gar, who  stand  in  most  need  of  instruction  ;  to  address 
philosophers,  and  to  obtain  the  character  of  a  polite 
preacher  among  the  polite — a  much  more  useless, 
though  more  sought-for  character — requires  a  differ- 
ent  method  of  proceeding.  All  I  shall  observe  on 
this  head  is,  to  entreat  the  polemic  divine,  in  his  con- 
troversy with  the  deist,  to  act  rather  offensively  than 
to  defend;  to  push  home  the  grounds  of  his  belief, 
and  the  impracticability  of  theirs,  rather  than  to  spend 
time  in  solving  the  objections  of  every  opponent.  '  It 
is  ten  to  one,'  says  a  late  writer  on  the  art  of  war, 
'but  that  the  assailant  who  attacks  the  enemy  in  his 
trenches  is  always  victorious.' 

Yet  upon  the  whole,  our  clergy  might  employ 
themselves  more  to  the  benefit  of  society,  by  declining 
all  controversy,  than  byexhib.ting  even  the  profound- 
est  skill  in  polemic  disputes  :  their  contests  with  each 
other  often  turn  on  speculative  trifles  ;  and  their  dis- 
putes with  the  deist  are  almost  at  an  end,  since  they 
can  have  no  more  than  victory ;  and  that  they  are 
already  possessed  of,  as  their  antagonists  have  been 
driven  into  a  confession  of  the  necessity  of  revelation, 
or  an  open  avowal  of  atheism.  To  continue  the  dis- 
pute longer  would  only  endanger  it ;  the  sceptic  is 
ever  expert  at  puzzling  a  debate  which  he  finds  him- 
self unable  to  continue,  '  and,  like  an  Olympic  boxer, 
generally  fights  best  when  undermost.' 


ON    THE 

ADVANTAGES  TO  BE  DERIVED  FROM  SENDING 
A  JUDICIOUS  TRAVELLER  INTO  ASIA. 

I  have  frequently  been  amazed  at  the  ignorance  of 
almost  all  the  European  travellers,  who  have  pene- 
trated any  considerable  way  eastward  into  Asia.  They 
have  all  been  influenced  either  by  motives  of  com- 
merce or  piety,  and  their  accounts  are  such  as  might  rea- 


ESSAYS.  331 

•onably  be  expected  from  men  of  a  very  narrow  or  very 
prejudiced  education — the  dictates  of  superstition,  or 
the  result  of  ignorance.  Is  it  not  surprising,  that,  of 
such  a  variety  of  adventurers,  not  one  single  philoso- 
pher should  be  found  among  the  number'?  For,  as  to 
the  travels  of  Gemelli,  the  learned  are  long  agreed 
that  the  whole  is  but  an  imposture. 

There  is  scarce  any  country,  how  rude  or  unculti- 
vated soever,  where  the  inhabitants  are  not  possessed 
of  some  peculiar  secrets,  either  in  nature  or  art,  which 
might  be  transplanted  with  success;  thus,  for  instance, 
in  Siberian  Tartary,  the  natives  extract  a  strong  spirit 
from  milk,  which  is  a  secret  probably  unknown  to  the 
chemists  in  Europe.  In  the  most  savage  parts  of 
India  they  are  possessed  of  the  secret  of  dying  vege- 
table substances  scarlet,  and  likewise  that  of  refining 
lead  into  a  metal,  which,  for  hardness  and  colour,  is 
little  inferior  to  silver  ;  not  one  of  which  secrets  but 
would,  in  Europe,  make  a  man's  fortune.  The  power 
of  the  Asiatics  in  producing  winds,  or  bringing  down 
rain,  the  Europeans  are  apt  to  treat  as  fabulous,  be- 
cause they  have  no  instances  of  the  like  nature  among 
themselves;  but  they  would  have  treated  the  secrets  of 
gunpowder,  and  the  mariner's  compass,  in  the  same 
manner,  had  they  been  told  the  Chinese  used  such 
arts  before  the  invention  was  common  with  themselves 
at  home. 

Of  all  the  English  philosophers,  I  most  reverence 
Bacon,  that  great  and  hardy  genius-;  he  it  is,  who, 
undaunted  by  the  seeming  difficulties  that  oppose, 
prompts  human  curiosity  to  examine  every  part  of 
nature  ;  and  even  exhorts  man  to  try  whether  he  can- 
not subject  the  tempest,  the  thunder,  and  even  earth- 
quakes, to  human  control.  Oh  !  had  a  man  of  his 
daring  spirit,  of  his  genius,  penetration,  and  learning, 
travelled  to  those  countries  which  have  been  visited 
only  by  the  superstitious  and  mercenary,  what  might 
not  mankind  expect !  How  would  he  enlighten  the 
regions  to  which  he  travelled!  and  what  a  variety  of 


332  ESSAYS. 

knowledge  aud  useful  improvement  would  he  not  bring 
back  in  exchange. 

There  is  probably  no  country  so  barbarous,  that 
would  not  disclose  all  it  knew,  if  it  received  equiva- 
lent information  ;  and  I  am  apt  to  think,  that  a  person 
who  was  ready  to  give  more  knowledge  than  he  re- 
ceived, would  be  welcome  wherever  he  came.  All 
his  care  in  travelling  should  only  be,  to  suit  his  intel- 
lectual banquet  to  the  people  with  whom  he  con- 
versed ;  he  should  not  attempt  to  teach  the  unlettered 
Tartar  astronomy,  nor  yet  instruct  the  polite  Chinese 
in  the  arts  of  subsistence  ;  he  should  endeavour  to 
improve  the  barbarian  in  the  secrets  of  living  comfort- 
ably ;  and  the  inhabitant  of  a  more  refined  country, 
in  the  speculative  pleasures  of  science.  How  much 
more  nobly  would  a  philosopher,  thus  employed,  spend 
his  time,  than  by  sitting  at  home,  earnestly  intent 
upon  adding  one  star  more  to  his  catalogue,  or  one 
monster  more  to  his  collection;  or  still,  if  possible, 
more  trifiingly  sedulous,  in  the  incatenation  of  fleas, 
or  the  sculpture  of  cherry-stones. 

I  never  consider  this  subject  without  beino-  sur- 
prised that  none  of  those  societies  so  laudably  esta- 
blished in  England  for  the  promotion  of  arts  and 
learning,  have  ever  thought  of  sending  one  of  their 
members  into  the  most  eastern  parts  of  Asia,  to  make 
what  discoveries  he  was  able.  To  be  convinced  of 
the  utility  of  such  an  undertaking,  let  them  but  read 
the  relations  of  their  own  travellers.  It  will  there  be 
found,  that  they  are  as  often  deceived  themselves  as 
they  attempt  to  deceive  others.  The  merchants  tell 
us,  perhaps,  the  price  of  different  commodities,  the 
methods  of  baling  them  up,  and  the  properest  manner 
for  a  European  to  preserve  his  health  in  the  country. 
The  missionary,  on  the  other  hand,  informs  us  with 
what  pleasure  the  country  to  which  he  was  sent  em- 
braced Christianity,  and  the  numbers  he  converted- 
what  methods  he  took  to  keep  Lent  in  a  region  where 
there  were  no  fish,  or  the  shifts  he  made  to  celebrate 


ESSAYS.  333 

the  rites  of  his  religion,  in  places  where  there  was 
neither  bread  nor  wine  ;  such  account-;,  with  the  usual 
appendage  of  marriages  and  funerals,  inscriptions, 
rivers,  and  mountains,  make  up  the  whole  of  a  Eu- 
ropean traveller's  diary:  but  as  to  all  the  secrets  of 
which  the  inhabitants  are  possessed,  those  are  univer- 
sally attributed  to  magic  ;  and  when  the  traveller  can 
give  no  other  account  of  the  wonders  he  sees  per- 
formed, he  very  contentedly  ascribes  them  to  the 
devil. 

It  was  a  usual  observation  of  Boyle,  the  English 
chemist,  that,  if  every  artist  would  but  discover  what 
new  observations  occurred  to  him  in  the  exercise  of 
his  trade,  philosophy  would  thence  gain  innumerable 
improvements.  It  may  be  observed  with  still  greater 
justice,  that,  if  the  useful  knowledge  of  every  country, 
howsoever  barbarous,  was  gleaned  by  a  judicious  ob- 
server, the  advantages  would  be  inestimable.  Are 
there  not,  even  in  Europe,  many  useful  inventions 
known  or  practised  but  in  one  place?  Their  instru- 
ment, as  an  example,  for  cutting  down  corn  in  Cicr- 
many,  is  much  more  handy  and  expeditious,  in  my 
opinion,  than  the  sickle  used  in  England.  The  cheap* 
and  expeditious  manner  of  making  vinegar,  without 
previous  fermentation,  is  known  only  in  a  part  of 
France.  If  such  discoveries  therefore  remain  still  to 
be  known  at  home,  what  funds  of  knowledge  might 
not  be  collected  in  countries  yet  unexplored,  or  only 
passed  through  by  ignorant  travellers  in  hasty  ca- 
ravans. 

The  caution  with  which  foreigners  are  received  in 
Asia,  may  be  alleged  as  an  objection  to  such  a  de- 
sign. But  how  readily  have  several  European  mer- 
chants found  admission  into  regions  the  most  sus- 
picious, under  the  character  of  sanjapins,  or  northern 
pilgrims'!  To  such  not  even  China  itself  denies  ac 

To  send  out  a  traveller  properly  qualified  for  these 
purposes,  might  be  an  object  of  national  concern:  it 
would,  in  some  measure,  repair  the  breaches  made 
by  ambition;   and  might  shew  that  there  were  still 


334 


ESSAYS. 


some  who  boasted  a  greater  name  than  that  of  pa- 
triots, who  professed  themselves  lovers  of  men. 

The  only  difficul-ty  would  remain  in  choosing  a  proper 
person  for  so  arduous  an  enterprise.  He  should  be  a 
man  of  a  philosophical  turn;  one  apt  to  deduce  conse- 
quences of  general  utility  from  particular  occurrences  ; 
neither  swoln  with  pride,  nor  hardened  by  prejudice; 
neither  wedded  to  one  particular  system,  nor  instruct- 
ed only  in  one  particular  science ;  neither  wholly 
a  botanist,  nor  quite  an  antiquarian,  his  mind  should 
be  tinctured  with  miscellaneous  knowledge ;  and  his 
manners  humanized  by  an  intercourse  with  men. 
He  should  be,  in  some  measure,  an  enthusiast  to 
the  design:  fond  of  travelling,  from  a  rapid  imagina- 
tion, and  an  innate  love  of  change;  furnished  with 
a  body  capable  of  sustaining  every  fatigue,  and  a 
heart  not  easily  terrified  at  danger. 


A  REVERIE  AT  THE  BOAR'S-HEAD  TAVERN, 
IN  EASTCHEAP. 

J"he  improvements  we  make  in  mental  acquirements 
only  render  us  each  day  more  sensible  of  the  defects 
of  our  constitution  :  with  this  in  view,  therefore,  let  us 
often  recur  to  the  amusements  of  youth  ;  endeavour 
to  forget  age  and  wisdom,  and,  as  far  as  innocence 
goes,  be  as  much  a  boy  as  the  best  of  them. 

Let  idle  declaimers  mourn  over  the  degeneracy  of 
the  age,  but,  in  my  opinion,  every  age  is  the  same. 
This  I  am  sure  of,  that  man,  in  every  season,  is  a 
poor  fretful  being,  with  no  other  means  to  escape  the 
calamities  of  the  times,  but  by  endeavouring  to  forget 
them  ;  for,  if  he  attempts  to  resist,  he  is  certainly  un- 
done. ]f  I  feel  poverty  and  pain,  I  am  not  so  hardy 
as  to  quarrel  with  the  executioner,  even  while  under 
correction  ;  I  find  myself  no  way  disposed  to  make 
fine  speeches,  while  I  am  making  wry  faces.  In  a 
word,  let  me  drink  when  the  fit  is  on,  to  make  me  in- 
sensible ;  and  drink  when  it  is  over,  for  joy  that  I  feel 
pain  no  longer. 


ESSAYS.  335 

The  character  of  old  Falstaff,  even  with  all  his 
faults,  gives  me  more  consolation  than  the  most 
studied  efforts  of  wisdom  :  I  here  behold  an  agreeable 
old  fellow,  forgetting  age,  and  shewing  me  the  way  to 
be  young  at  sixty-five.  Sure  I  am  well  able  to  be 
as  merry,  though  not  so  comical,  as  he.  Is  it  not  in 
my  power  K>  have,  though  not  so  much  wit,  at  least 
as  much  vivacity  ? — Age,  care,  wisdom,  reflection, 
begone  ! — I  give  you  to  the  winds.  Let's  have  t'other 
bottle  :  here's  to  the  memory  of  Shakspeare,  FaLstaff, 
and  all  the  merry  men  of  Eastcheap. 

Such  were  the  reflections  that  naturally  arose  while 
I  sat  at  the  Boar's-head  tavern,  still  kept  at  Eastcheap. 
Here,  by  a  pleasant  fire,  in  the  very  room  where  old 
Sir  John  Falstaff  cracked  his  jokes,  in  the  very  chair 
which  was  sometimes  honoured  by  Prince  Henry,  and 
sometimes  polluted  by  his  immoral,  merry  companions, 
I  sat  and  ruminated  on  the  follies  of  youth  ;  wished  to 
be  young  again  ;  but  was  resolved  to  make  the  best  of 
life  while  it  lasted,  and  now  and  then  compared  past 
and  present  times  together.  I  considered  myself  as 
the  only  living  representative  of  the  old  knight ;  and 
transported  my  imagination  back  to  the  times  when  the 
prince  and  he  gave  life  to  the  revel,  and  made  even 
debauchery  not  disgusting.  The  room  also  conspired 
to  throw  my  reflection  back  into  antiquity  :  the  oak 
floor,  the  Gothic  windows,  and  the  ponderous  chimney- 
piece,  had  long  withstood  the  tooth  of  time  :  the  watch- 
men had  gone  twelve  :  my  companions  had  all  stolen 
off,  and  none  now  remained  with  me  but  the  landlord. 
From  him  I  could  have  wished  to  know  the  history  of 
a  tavern  that  had  such  a  long  succession  of  customers  ; 
I  could  not  help  thinking  that  an  account  of  this  kind 
would  be  a  pleasing  contrast  of  the  manners  of  dif- 
ferent ages ;  but  my  landlord  could  give  me  no  infor- 
mation. He  continued  to  doze,  and  sot,  and  tell  a 
tedious  story,  as  most  other  landlords  usually  do  ;  and, 
though  he  said  nothing,  yet  was  never  silent ;  one  good 
joke  followed  another  good  joke,  and  the  best  joke  of 
'all  was  generally  begun  towards  the  end  of  a  bottle. 


33G  ESSAYS. 

I  found  at  last,  however,  his  wine  and  his  conversation 
operate  by  degrees :  he  insensibly  began  to  alter  his 
appearance.  His  cravat  seemed  quilled  into  a  ruff, 
and  his  breeches  swelled  into  a  fardingale.  I  now 
fancied  him  changing  sexes  ;  and,  as  my  eyes  began  to 
close  in  slumber,  I  imagined  my  fat  landlord  actually 
converted  into  as  fat  a  landlady.  However,  sleep 
made  but  few  changes  in  my  situation  :  the  tavern, 
the  apartment,  and  the  table,  continued  as  before ; 
nothing  suffered  mutation  but  my  host,  who  was  fairly 
altered  into  a  gentlewoman,  whom  I  knew  to  be  Dame 
Quickly,  mistress  of  this  tavern  in  the  days  of  Sir 
John  ;  and  the  liquor  we  were  drinking,  which  seemed 
converted  into  sack  and  sugar. 

'  My  dear  Mrs.  Quickly,'  cried  I  (for  I  knew  her 
perfectly  well  at  first  sight),  '  I  am  heartily  glad  to 
see  you.  How  have  you  left  Falstaff,  Pistol,  and  the 
rest  of  our  friends  below  stairs'!  Brave  and  hearty,  I 
hope  1 ' — '  In  good  sooth,'  replied  she,  :  he.did  deserve 
to  live  for  ever ;  but  he  maketh  foul  work  on't  where 
he  hatli  flitted.  Queen  Proserpine  and  he  have  quar- 
relled, for  his  attempting  a  rape  upon  her  divinity  ; 
and  were  it  not  that  she  still  had  bowels  of  compassion, 
it  more  than  seems  probable  he  might  have  now  been 
sprawling  in  Tartarus.' 

I  now  found  that  spirits  still  preserve  the  frailties  of 
the  flesh  ;  and  that,  according  to  the  laws  of  criticism 
and  dreaming,  ghosts  have  been  known  to  be  guilty  of 
even  more  than  Platonic  affection  :  wherefore,  as  I 
found  her  too  much  moved  on  such  a  topic  to  proceed, 
I  was  resolved  to  change  the  subject;  and,  desiring 
she  would  pledge  me  in  a  bumper,  observed  with  a 
sigh,  that  our  sack  was  nothing  now  to  what  it  was  in 
former  days.  '  Ah,  Mrs.  Quickly,  those  were  merry 
times  when  you  drew  sack  for  Prince  Henry:  men 
were  twice  as  strong,  and  twice  as  wise,  and  much 
braver,  and  ten  thousand  times  more  charitable,  than 
now.  Those  were  the  times  !  The  battle  of  Agincourt 
was  a  victory  indeed  !  Ever  since  that,  we  'i n. e  only 
been  degenerating;  and  I  have  lived  to  see  the  das 


l'.sSAl'  S.  337 

when  drinking  is  no  longer  fashionable.  When  men 
wear  clean  shirts,  and  women  shew  their  necks  and 
arms,  all  are  degenerated,  Mrs.  Quickly;  and  we  shall 
probably,  in  another  century,  be  fritted  away  into 
beaux  or  monkeys.  Had  you  been  on  earth  to  see 
what  I  have  seen,  it  would  congeal  ail  the  blood  in 
your  body  (your  soul,  I  mean).  Why,  our  very 
nobility  now  have  the  intolerable  arrogance,  in  spite 
of  what  is  every  day  remonstrated  from  the  press  ;  our 
very  nobility,  I  say,  have  the  assurance  to  frequent 
assemblies,  and  presume  to  be  as  merry  as  the  vulgar. 
See,  my  very  friends  have  scarce  manhood  enough  to 
sit  till  eleven  ;  and  I  only  am  left  to  make  a  night  on't. 
Pr'ythee  do  me  the  favour  to  console  me  a  little  for 
their  absence  by  the  story  of  your  own  adventures,  or 
the  history  of  the  tavern  where  we  are  now  sitting.  I 
fancy  the  narrative  may  have  something  singular.' 

'  Ob-erve  this  apartment,'  interrupted  my  com- 
panion, '  of  neat  device  and  excellent  workmanship — 
In  this  room  I  have  lived,  child,  woman,  and  ghost, 
more  than  three  hundred  years;  1  am  ordered  by 
Pluto  to  keep  an  annual  register  of  every  transaction 
that  passeth  here:  and  1  have  whilom  compiled  three 
hundred  tomes,  which  eftsoons  may  be  submitted  to 
thy  regards.' — '  None  of  your  whiloms  nor  eftsoons, 
IUrs.  Quickly,  if  you  please,'  1  replied  ;  '  I  know  you 
can  talk  every  whit  as  well  as  I  can  :  for,  as  you  have 
lived  here  so  long,  it  is  but  natural  to  suppose  vou 
should  learn  the  conversation  of  the  company.  Believe 
me,  dame,  at  best,  you  have  neither  too  much  sense, 
nor  too  much  language,  to  spare  ;  so  give  me  both  as 
well  as  you  can:  but  first,  my  service  to  you;  old 
women  should  water  their  clay  a  little  now  and  then  ; 
and  now  to  your  story.' 

'  The  story  of  my  own  adventures,'  replied  the 
vision,  '  is  but  short  and  unsatisfactory ;  for,  believe 
me,  Mr.  Rigmarole,  believe  me,  a  woman  with  a  butt 
of  sack  at  her  elbow  is  never  long-lived.  Sir  John's 
death  afflicted  me  to  such  a  degree,  that  I  sincerely 
believe,  to  drown  sorrow,  I  drank  more  liquor  myself 

Q 


338  ESSAYS. 

than  I  drew  for  my  customers  :  my  giief  was  sinceie, 
and  the  sack  was  excellent.  The  prior  of  a  neigh- 
bouring convent  (for  our  priors  then  had  as  much 
power  as  a  Middlesex  justice  now),  he,  I  say,  it  was 
who  gave  me  a  licence  for  keeping  a  disorderly  house  ; 
upon  condition  that  I  should  never  make  hard  bargains 
with  the  clergy  :  that  he  should  have  a  bottle  of  sack 
every  morning,  and  the  liberty  of  confessing  which  of 
my  girls  he  thought  proper  in  private  every  night.  I 
had  continued  for  several  years  to  pay  this  tribute  ; 
and  he,  it  must  be  confessed,  continued  as  rigorously 
to  exact  it.  I  grew  old  insensibly ;  my  customers  con- 
tinued, however,  to  compliment  my  looks  while  I  was 
by,  but  I  could  hear  them  say  I  was  wearing  when 
my  back  was  turned.  The  prior,  howevei,  still  was 
constant,  and  so  were  half  his  convent;  but  one  fatal 
morning  he  missed  the  usual  beverage,  for  I  had 
incautiously  drunk  over-night  the  last  bottle  myself. 
What  will  you  have  on't'!  The  very  next  day  Doll 
Tearsheet  and  I  were  sent  to  the  house  of  correction, 
and  accused  of  keeping  a  low  bawdy-house.  In  short, 
we  were  so  well  purified  there  with  stripes,  mortifica- 
tion, and  penance,  that  we  were  afterward  utterly 
unfit  for  worldly  conversation  :  though  sack  would 
have  killed  me,  had  I  stuck  to  it,  yet  I  soon  died  for 
want  of  a  drop  of  something  comfortable,  and  fairly 
left  my  body  to  the  care  of  the  beadle. 

'  Such  is  my  own  history ;  but  that  of  the  tavern, 
where  I  have  ever  since  been  stationed,  affords  greater 
variety.  In  the  history  of  this,  which  is  one  of  the 
oldest  in  London,  vou  may  view  the  different  manners, 
pleasures,  and  follies  of  men,  at  different  periods.— - 
You  vvill  find  mankind  neither  better  nor  worse  now 
than  formerly  :  the  vices  of  an  uncivilized  people  are 
generally  more  detestable,  though  not  so  frequent,  as 
those  in  polite  society.  It  is  the  same  luxury  which 
formerly  stuffed  your  alderman  with  plum-porridge, 
and  now  crams  him  with  turtle.  It  is  the  same  low 
ambition  that  formerly  induced  a  courtier  to  give  up 
his  religion  to  please  his  king,  and  now  persuades  hira 


ESSAYS.  339 

to  give  up  his  conscience  to  please  his  minister.  It 
is  the  same  vanity  that  formerly  stained  our  ladies' 
cheeks  and  necks  with  woad,  and  now  paints  them 
with  carmine.  Your  ancient  Briton  formerly  pow- 
dered his  hair  with  red  earth,  like  brick-dust,  in  order 
to  appear  frightful  ;  your  modern  Briton  cuts  his  hair 
on  the  crown,  and  plasters  it  with  hogs'-lard  and  flour; 
and  this  to  make  him  look  killing.  It  is  the  same 
vanity,  the  same  folly,  and  the  same  vice,  only  appear- 
ing different,  as  viewed  through  the  glass  of  fashion. 
In  a  word,  all  mankind  are  a ' 

*  Sure  the  woman  is  dreaming,'  interrupted  I. — 
'  None  of  your  reflections,  Mrs.  Quickly,  if  you  love 
me;  they  only  give  me  the  spleen.  Tell  me  your 
history  at  once.     I  love  stories,  but  hate  reasoning.' 

'  If  you  please  then,  sir,'  returned  my  companion, 
'  I'll  read  you  an  abstract,  which  I  made,  of  the  three 
hundred  volumes  I  mentioned  just  now: 

'  .My  body  was  no  sooner  laid  in  the  dust,  than  the 
prior  and  several  of  his  convent  came  to  purify  the 
tavern  from  the  pollutions  with  which  they  said  I  had 
filled  it.  Masses  were  said  in  every  room,  relics  were 
exposed  upon  every  piece  of  furniture,  and  the  whole 
house  washed  with  a  deluge  of  holy  water.  My  habi- 
tation was  soon  converted  into  a  monastery  ;  instead 
of  customers  now  applying  for  sack  and  sugar,  my 
rooms  were  crowded  with  images,  relics,  saints,  whores, 
and  friars.  Instead  of  being  a  scene  of  occasional 
debauchery,  it  was  now  filled  with  continued  lewdness. 
The  prior  led  the  fashion,  and  the  whole  convent  imi- 
tated his  pious  example.  Matrons  came  hither  to 
confess  their  sins,  and  to  commit  new.  Virgins  came 
hither  who  seldom  went  virgins  away.  I\'or  was  this 
a  convent  peculiarly  wicked  ;  every  convent  at  that 
period  was  equally  fond  of  pleasure,  and  gave  a 
boundless  loose  to  appetite.  The  laws  allowed  it: 
each  priest  had  a  right  to  a  favourite  companion,  and 
a  power  of  discarding  her  as  often  as  he  pleased.  The 
laity  grumbled,  quarrelled  with  their  wives  and  daugh. 
ters,  hated  their  confessors,  and  maintained  them  in 


310  ESSAYS. 

opulence  and  ease.  These,  these  were  happy  times, 
Mr.  Rigmarole  :  these  were  times  of  p;oty,  bravery, 
and  simplicity!' — '  Not  so  very  happy,  neither,  good 
madam;  pretty  much  like  the  present:  those  that 
labour,  starve  ;  and  those  that  do  nothing,  wear  fine 
clothes  and  live  in  luxury.' 

'  In  this  manner  the  fathers  lived,  for  some  years, 
without  molestation ;  they  transgressed,  confessed 
themselves  to  each  other,  and  were  forgiven.  One 
evening,  however,  our  prior  keeping  a  lady  of  distinc- 
tion somewhat  too  long  at  confession,  her  husband 
unexpectedly  came  upon  them,  and  testified  ail  the 
indignation  which  was  natural  upon  such  an  occasion. 
The  prior  assured  the  gentleman  that  it  was  the  devil 
who  had  put  it  into  his  heart ;  and  the  lady  was  verv 
certain,  that  she  was  under  the  influence  of  magic,  or 
she  could  never  have  behaved  in  so  unfaithful  a  man- 
ner. The  husband,  however,  was  not  to  be  put  off  by 
such  evasions,  but  summoned  both  before  the  tribunal 
of  justice.  His  proofs  were  flagrant,  and  he  expected 
large  damages.  Such,  indeed,  he  had  a  right  to  ex- 
pect, were  the  tribunals  of  those  days  constituted  in 
the  same  manner  as  they  are  now.  The  cause  of  the 
priest  was  to  be  tried  before  an  assembly  of  priests  ; 
and  a  layman  was  to  expect  redress  only  from  their 
impartiality  and  candour.  What  plea  then  do  you 
think  the  prior  made  to  obviate  this  accusation  ?  He 
denied  the  fact,  and  challenged  the  plaintiff  to  try  the 
merits  of  their  eause  by  single  combat.  It  was  a  little 
hard,  you  may  be  sure,  upon  the  poor  gentleman,  not 
only  to  be  made  a  cuckold,  but  to  be  obliged  to  fight 
a  duel  into  the  bargain  ;  yet  such  was  the  justice  of  the 
times.  The  prior  threw  down  his  glove,  and  the  in- 
jured husband  was  obliged  to  take  it  up,  in  token  of  his 
accepting  the  challenge.  Upon  this,  the  priest  sup- 
plied his  champion,  for  it  was  not  lawful  for  the  clergy 
to  fight ;  and  the  defendant  and  plaintiff,  according  to 
custom,  were  put  in  prison  ;  both  ordered  to  fast  and 
pray,  every  method  being  previously  used  to  induce 
both  to  a  confession  of  the  truth.     After  a  month's 


ESSAYS.  341 

imprisonment,  the  hair  of  each  was  cut,  their  bodies 
anointed  with  oil,  the  field  of  battle  appointed,  and 
guarded  by  soldiers,  while  his  majesty  presided  over 
the  whole  in  person.  Both  the  champions  were  sworn 
not  to  seek  victory  either  by  fraud  or  magic.  They 
prayed  and  confessed  upon  their  knees;  and,  after 
these  ceremonies,  the  rest  was  left  to  the  courage  and 
conduct  of  the  combatants.  As  the  champion  whom 
the  prior  had  pitched  upon,  had  fought  six  or  eight 
times  upon  similar  occasions,  it  was  no  way  extraor- 
dinary to  find  him  victorious  in  the  present  combat. 
In  short,  the  husband  was  discomfited  ;  he  was  taken 
from  the  field  of  battle,  stripped  to  his  shirt,  and,  after 
one  of  his  legs  was  cut  off,  as  justice  ordained  in  such 
cases,  he  was  hanged  as  a  terror  to  future  offenders. 
These,  these  were  the  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole  !  you  see 
how  much  more  just,  and  wise,  and  valiant,  our  an- 
cestors were  than  we.' — '  I  rather  fancv,  madam,  that 
the  times  then  were  pretty  much  like  our  own  ;  where 
a  multiplicity  of  laws  give  a  judge  as  much  power  as 
a  want  of  law  ;  since  he  is  ever  sure  to  find  among  the 
number  some  to  countenance  his  partiality.' 

'  Our  convent,  victorious  over  their  enemies,  now 
gave  a  loose  to  every  demonstration  of  joy.  The  lady 
became  a  nun,  the  prior  was  made  a  bishop,  and  three 
Wickliffites  were  burned  in  the  illuminations  and  fire- 
works that  were  made  on  the  present  occasion.  Our 
convent  now  began  to  enjoy  a  very  high  degree  of 
reputation.  There  was  not  one  in  London  that  had 
the  character  of  hating  heretics  so  much  as  ours. 
Ladies  of  the  first  distinction  chose  from  our  convent 
their  confessors  ;  in  short,  it  flourished,  and  might 
have  flourished  to  this  hour,  but  for  a  fatal  accident, 
which  terminated  in  its  overthrow.  .The  lady  whom 
the  prior  had  placed  in  a  nunnery,  ami  whom  he  con- 
tinued to  visit  for  some  time  with  great  punctuality, 
began  at  last  to  perceive  that  she  was  quite  forsaken. 
Secluded  from  conversation,  as  usual,  she  now  enter« 
tained  the  visions  of  a  devotee  ;  found  herself  strangely 
disturbed  ;  but  hesitated  in  determining,  whether  she 


342  ESSAYS. 

was  possessed  by  an  angel  or  a  demon.     She  was  not 
long  in  suspense  :  for,  upon  vomiting  a  large  quantity 
of  crooked  pins,   and  finding  the  palms  of  her  hands 
turned  outwards,  she  quickly  concluded  that  she  was 
possessed  by  the  devil.     She  soon  lost  entirely  the  use 
of  speech  ;  and  when  she  seemed  to  speak,  every  body 
that  was  present  perceived  that  her  voice  was  not  hei 
own,  but  that  of  the  devil  within  her.     In  short,  she 
was  bewitched  ;  and  all  the  difficulty  lay  in  determin- 
ing who  it  could  be  that  bewitched  her.     The  nuns 
and  the  monks  all  demanded  the  magician's  name, 
but  the  devil  made  no  reply  ;  for  he  knew  they  had 
no  authority  to  ask  questions.     By  the  rules  of  witch- 
craft, when  an  evil  spirit  has  taken  possession,  he  may 
refuse  to  answer  any  questions  asked  him,  unless  they 
are  put  by  a  bishop,  and  to  these  he  is  obliged  to  re- 
ply.    A  bishop,  therefore,  was  sent  for,  and  now  the 
whole  secret  came  out  :  the  devil  reluctantly  owned 
that  he  was  a  servant  of  the  prior  ;  that  by  his  com- 
mand he  resided  in  his  present  habitation  ;  and  that, 
without  his  command,  he  was  resolved  to  keep  in  pos- 
session.    The  bishop  was  an  able  exorcist ;  he  drove 
the  devil  out  by  force  of  mystical  arms  ;  the  prior  was 
arraigned  for  witchcraft;  the   witnesses   were  strong 
and  numerous  against  him,  not  less  than  fourteen  per- 
sons being  by  who  heard  the  devil  speak  Latin.    There 
was  no  resisting  such  a  cloud  of  witnesses  ;  the  prior 
was  condemned  ;  and  he  who  had  assisted  at  so  many 
burnings,  was  burned  himself  in  turn.     These  were 
times,  Mr.  Rigmarole  ;  the  people  of  those  times  were 
not  infidels,  as  now,  but  sincere  believers  !' — '  Equally 
faulty  with  ourselves,  they  believed  what  the  devil 
was  pleased  to  tell  them  ;  and  we  seem  resolved,  at 
last,  to  believe  neither  God  nor  devil.' 

'  After  such  a  stain  upon  the  convent,  it  was  not  to 
be  supposed  it  could  subsist  any  longer  ;  the  fathers 
were  ordered  to  decamp,  and  the  house  was  once  again 
converted  into  a  tavern.  The  king  conferred  it  on  one 
of  his  cast-off  mistresses  ;  she  was  constituted  landlady 
by  royal  authority  ;  and,   as  the  tavern  was  in  the 


ESSAYS.  343 

neighbourhood  of  the  court,  and  the  mistress  a  very 
polite  woman,  it  began  to  have  more  business  than 
ever,  and  sometimes  took  not  less  than  four  shillings 
a-day. 

*  But  perhaps  you  are  desirous  of  knowing  what 
were  the  peculiar  qualifications  of  women  of  fashion 
at  that  period  ;  and  in  a  description  of  the  present 
landlady,  you  will  have  a  tolerable  idea  of  all  the  rest. 
This  lady  was  the  daughter  of  a  nobleman,  and  re- 
ceived such  an  education  in  the  country  as  became 
her  quality,  beauty,  and  great  expectations.  Sue 
could  make  shifts  and  hose  for  herself  and  all  the  ser- 
vants of  the  family,  when  she  was  twelve  years  old. 
She  knew  the  names  of  the  four-and-twenty  letters,  so 
that  it  was  impossible  to  bewitch  her ;  and  this  was  a 
greater  piece  of  learning  than  any  lady  in  the  whole 
country  could  pretend  to.  She  was  always  up  early, 
and  saw  breakfast  served  in  the  great  hall  by  six 
o'clock.  At  this  scene  of  festivity  she  generally  im- 
proved good-humour,  by  telling  her  dreams,  relating 
stories  of  spirits,  several  of  which  she  herself  had  seen, 
and  one  of  which  she  was  reported  to  have  killed  with 
a  black-hafted  knife.  From  hence  she  usually  went 
to  make  pastry  in  the  larder,  and  here  she  was  fol- 
lowed by  her  sweet-hearts,  who  were  much  helped  on 
in  conversation  by  struggling  with  her  for  kisses. 
About  ten,  miss  generally  went  to  play  at  hot-cockles 
and  blindman's  buff  in  the  parlour;  and  when  the 
young  folks  (for  they  seldom  played  at  hot-cockles 
when  grown  old)  were  tired  of  such 'amusements,  the 
gentlemen  entertained  miss  with  the  history  of  their 
greyhounds,  bear-baitings,  and  victories  at  cudgel- 
playing.  If  the  weather  was  fine,  they  ran  at  "the 
ring,  or  shot  at  butts,  while  miss  held  in  her  hand  a 
riband,  with  which  she  adorned  the  conqueror.  Her 
mental  qualifications  were  exactly  fitted  to  her  ex- 
ternal accomplishments.  Before  she  was  fifteen  she 
could  tell  the  story  of  Jack  the  Giant  Killer ;  could 
name  every  mountain  that  was  inhabited  by  fairies  ; 
knew  a  witch  at  first  sight ;  and  could   repeat  four 

e 


344  ESSAYS. 

Latin  prayers  without  a  prompter.  Her  dress  was 
perfectly  fashionable  ;  her  arms  and  her  hair  were 
completely  covered  ;  a  monstrous  muff  was  put  round 
her  neck,  so  that  her  head  seemed  like  that  of  John  the 
Baptist  placed  in  a  charger.  In  short,  when  com- 
pletely equipped,  her  appearance  was  so  very  modest, 
that  she  discovered  little  more  than  her  nose.  These 
were  the  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole,  when  every  lady  that 
had  a  good  nose  might  set  up  for  a  beauty  ;  when 
every  woman  that  could  tell  stories  might  be  cried  up 
for  a  wit.' — '  I  am  as  much  displeased  at  those  dresses 
which  conceal  too  much,  as  at  those  which  discover 
too  much  :  I  am  equally  an  enemy  to  a  female  dunce, 
or  a  female  pedant.' 

'  You  may  be  sure  that  miss  chose  a  husband  with 
qualifications  resembling  her  own  ;  she  pitched  upon  a 
courtier  equally  remarkable  for  hunting  and  drinking, 
who  had  given  several  proofs  of  his  great  virility  among 
the  daughters  of  his  tenants  and  domestics.  They  fell 
in  love  at  first  sight  (for  such  was  the  gallantry  of  the 
times),  were  married,  came  to  court,  and  madam 
appeared  with  superior  qualifications.  The  king  was 
struck  with  her  beauty.  All  property  was  at  the  king's 
command ;  the  husband  was  obliged  to  resign  all 
pretensions  in  his  wife  to  the  sovereign  whom  God 
anointed,  to  commit  adultery  where  he  thought  proper. 
The  king  loved  her  for  some  time  ;  but,  at  length,  re- 
penting of  his  misdeeds,  and  instigated  by  his  father 
confessor,  from  a  principle  of  conscience,  removed  her 
from  his  levee  to  the  bar  of  this  tavern,  and  took  a 
new  mistress  in  her  stead.  Let  it  not  surprise  you  to 
behold  the  mistress  of  a  king  degraded  to  so  humble 
an  office.  As  the  ladies  had  no  mental  accomplish- 
ments, a  good  face  was  enough  to  raise  them  to  the 
royal  couch  ;  and  she  who  was  this  day  a  royal  mis- 
tress, might  the  next,  when  her  beauty  palled  upon 
enjoyment,  be  doomed  to  infamy  and  want. 

'  Under  the  care  of  this  lady,  the  tavern  grew  into 
great  reputation  ;  the  courtiers  had  not  yet  learned 
lo  game,  but  they  paid  it  off  by  drinking  ;  drunken- 


ESSAYS.  345 

ness  is  ever  the  vice  of  a  barbarous,  and  gamin°-  of  a 
luxurious  age.     They  had  not  such  frequent  enter- 
tainments  as  the  moderns  have,  but  were  more  expen- 
sive and  more  luxurious  in  those  they  had.     All  their 
fooleries  were  more  elaborate,  and  more  admired  by 
the  great  and  the  vulgar,  than  now.     A  courtier  has 
been  known  to  spend  his  whole  fortune  at  a  single 
combat ;  a  king  to  mortgage  his  dominions  to  furnish 
out  the  lrippery  of  a  tournament.    There  were  certain 
days  appointed  for  riot  and  debauchery,  and  to  be 
sober  at   such  times  was   reputed  a  crime.     Kings 
themselves  set  the  example;  and  I  have  seen  monarch's 
m  this  room  drunk  before  the  entertainment  was  half 
concluded.    These  were  the  times,  sir,  when  the  kiro-s 
kept  mistresses,  and  got  drunk  in  public  ;  they  were 
too  plain  and  simple  in  those  happy  times  to   hide 
their  vices,  and  act  the  hypocrite  as  now.'—'  Lord 
Mrs.  Quickly!'  interrupting  her,  '  I  expected  to  hear 
a  story,  and  here  you  are  going  to  tell  me  1  know  not 
what  of  times  and  vices  ;  pr'ythee  let  me  entreat  thee 
once  more  to  waive  reflections,  and  give  thy  history 
without  deviation.' 

'  No  lady  upon  earth,'  continued  my  visionary  cor- 
respondent, '  knew  how  to  put  off  her  damaged  wine 
or  women  with  more  art  than  she.    When  these  grew 
flat,  or  those  paltry,  it  was  but  changing  their  names  ; 
the  wine  became  excellent,  and  the  girls  aereeable. 
fche  was  also  possessed  of  the  engaging  leer,  the  chuck 
under  the  chin,  winked  at  a  double  entendre,  could 
ruck  the  opportunity  of  calling  for  something  com- 
fortable, and  perfectly  understood  the  distinct  moments 
when  to  withdraw.    The  gallants  of  those  times  pretty 
much  resembled  the  bloods  of  ours;  they  were  fond  of 
pleasure,  but  quite  ignorant  of  the  art  of" refining  upon 
it:  thus  a  court-bawd  of  those  times  resembled  the 
common,  low-lived  harridan  of  a  modem  bagnio  - 
Witness,  ye  powers  of  debauchery  !  how  often  J  have 
been  present  at  the  various  appearances  of  drunken- 
ness,   not:    guilt,   and    brutality.     A  tavern  is  a  Hue 
picture  of  human  infirmity  ;  in  history  ue  find  onlv 

y  2  J 


&13  ESSAYS. 

one  side  of  the  age  exhibited  to  our  view  ;  but  in  the 
accounts  of  a  tavern  we  see  every  age  equally  absurd 
aad  equally  vicious. 

'  Upon  this  lady's  decease,  the  tavern  was  succes- 
sively occupied  by  adventurers,  bullies,  pimps,  and 
gamesters.  Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  reign  of 
Henry  VII.  gaming  was  more  universally  practised 
in  England  than  even  now.  Kings  themselves  have 
been  known  to  play  off,  at  primero,  not  onlv  all  the 
money  and  jewels  they  could  part  with,  but  the  very 
images  in  churuhes.  The  last  Henry  played  away, 
in  this  very  room,  not  only  the  four  great  bells  of  St. 
Paul's  cathedral,  but  the  fine  image  of  St.  Paul, 
which  stood  upon  the  top  of  the  spire,  to  Sir  Miles 
Partridge,  who  took  therri  down  the  next  day,  and 
sold  them  by  auction.  Have  you  then  any  cause  to 
regret  being  born  in  the  times  you  now  live  in,  or  do 
you  still  believe  that  human  nature  continues  to  run 
on  declining  every  age?  If  we  observe  the  actions  of 
the  busy  part  of  mankind,  your  ancestors  will  be  found 
infinitely  more  gross,  servile,  and  even  dishonest,  than 
you.  If,  forsaking  history,  we  only  trace  them  in 
their  hours  of  amusement  and  dissipation,  we  shall 
find  them  more  sensual,  more  entirely  devoted  to 
pleasure,  and  infinitely  more  selfish. 

'  The  last  hostess  of  note  I  find  upon  record  was 
Jane  Rouse.  She  was  born  among  the  lower  ranks 
of  the  people;  and  by  frugality  and  extreme  com- 
plaisance, contrived  to  acquire  a  moderate  fortune  : 
this  she  might  have  enjoyed  for  many  years,  had  she 
not  unfortunately  quarrelled  with  one  of  her  neigh- 
bours, a  woman  who  was  in  high  repute  for  sanctitv 
through  the  whole  parish.  In  the  times  of  which  I 
speak,  two  women  seldom  quarrelled  that  one  did  not 
accuse  the  other  of  witchcraft,  and  she  who  first  con- 
trived to  vomit  crooked  pins  was  sure  to  come  off  vic- 
torious. The  scandal  of  a  modern  tea-table  differs 
widely  from  the  scandal  of  former  times  ;  the  fascina- 
tion of  a  lady's  eyes,  at  present,  is  regarded  as  a  com- 
pliment ;  but  if  a  lady  formerly  should  be  accused  of 


ESSAYS.  347 

having  witchcraft  in  her  eyes,  it  were  much  better, 
both  for  her  soul  and  body,  that  she  had  no  eyes  at  all. 

'  In  short,  Jane  Rouse  was  accused  of  witchcraft, 
and  though  she  made  the  best  defence  she  could,  it 
was'all  to  no  purpose  ;  she  was  taken  from  her  own  bar 
to  the  bar  of  the  Old  Bailey,  condemned,  and  executed 
accordingly.  These  were  times,  indeed  !  when  even 
women  could  not  scold  in  safety. 

'  Since  her  time  the  tavern  underwent  several  revo- 
lutions, according  to  the  spirit  of  the  times,  or  the  dis- 
position of  the  reigning  monarch.  It  was  this  day  a 
brothel,  and  the  next  a  conventicle  for  enthusiasts. 
It  was  one  year  noted  for  harbouring  whigs,  and  the 
next  infamous  for  a  retreat  to  tories.  Some  years  ago 
it  was  in  high  vogue,  but  at  present  it  seems  declin- 
ing. This  only  may  be  remarked  in  general,  that 
whenever  taverns  flourish  most,  the  times  are  then  most 
extravagant  and  luxurious.' — '  Lord,  Mrs.  Quickly!' 
interrupted  I,  'you  have  really  deceived  me;  I  ex- 
pected a  romance,  and  here  you  have  been  this 
half-hour  giving  me  only  a  description  of  t lie  spirit  of 
the  times  ;  if  you  have  nothing  but  tedious  remarks  to 
communicate,  seek  some  other  hearer;  I  am  deter- 
mined to  hearken  only  to  stories.' 

I  had  scarce  concluded,  when  my  eyes  and  ears 
seemed  opened  to  my  landlord,  who  had  been  all  this 
while  giving  me  an  account  of  the  repairs  he  had 
made  in  the  house,  and  was  now  got  into  the  story  of 
the  cracked  glass  in  the  dining-room. 


ON  QUACK  DOCTORS. 

Whatever  may  be  the  merits  of  the  English  in  other 
sciences,  they  seem  peculiarly  excellent  in  the  art  of 
healing.  There  is  scarcely  a  disorder  incident  to 
humanity,  against  which  our  advertising  doctors  are 
not  possessed  with  a  most  infallible  antidote.  The 
professors  of  other  arts  confess  the  inevitable  intricacy 
of  things  ;  talk  with  doubt,  and  decide  with  hesitation  : 


318  ESSAYS. 

but  doubting  is  entirely  unknown  in  medicine :  the 
advertising  professors  here  delight  in  cases  of  difficulty ; 
be  the  disorder  ever  so  desperate  or  radical,  you  will 
find  numbers  in  every  street,  who,  by  levelling  a  pill 
at  the  part  affected,  promise  a  certain  cure  without 
loss  of  time,  knowledge  of  a  bedfellow,  or  hinderance 
of  business. 

When  I  consider  the  assiduity  of  this  profession, 
their  benevolence  amazes  me.  They  not  only,  in  ge- 
neral, give  their  medicines  for  half  value,  but  use  the 
most  persuasive  remonstrances  to  induce  the  sick  to 
come  and  be  cured.  Sure  there  must  be  something 
strangely  obstinate  in  an  English  patient,  who  refuses 
so  much  health  upon  such  easy  terms !  Does  he  take 
a  pride  in  being  bloated  with  a  dropsy?  does  he  find 
pleasure  in  the  alternations  of  an  intermittent  fever? 
or  feel  as  much  satisfaction  in  nursing  up  his  gout,  as 
he  found  pleasure  in  acquiring  it?  He  must;  other- 
wise he  would  never  reject  such  repeated  assurances 
of  instant  relief.  What  can  be  more  convincing  than 
the  manner  in  which  the  sick  are  invited  to  be  well  "* 
The  doctor  first  begs  the  most  earnest  attention  of  the 
public  to  what  he  is  going  to  propose ;  he  solemnly 
affirms  the  pill  was  never  found  to  want  success ;  he 
produces  a  list  of  those  who  have  been  rescued  from 
the  grave  by  taking  it.  Yet,  notwithstanding  all  this, 
there  are  many  here  who  now  and  then  think  proper 
to  be  sick  : — only  sick  did  I  say  ?  there  are  some  who 
even  think  proper  to  die  !  Yes,  by  the  head  of  Con- 
fucius, they  die  !  though  they  might  have  purchased 
the  health-restoring  specific  for  half-a-crown  at  every 
corner. 

I  can  never  enough  admire  the  sagacity  of  this  coun 
try  for  the  encouragement  given  to  the  professors  of 
this  art ;  with  what  indulgence  does  she  foster  up 
those  of  her  own  growth,  and  kindly  cherish  those 
that  come  from  abroad!  Like  a  skilful  gardener,  she 
invites  them  from  every  foreign  climate  to  herself. 
Here  every  great  exotic  strikes  root  as  soon  as  imported, 
and  feels  the  genial  beam  of  favour ;  while  the  mighty 


ESSAYS.  349 

metropolis,  like  one  vast  munificent  dunghill,  receives 
them  indiscriminately  to  her  breast,  and  supplies  each 
with  more  than  native  nourishment. 

In  other  countr-ies  the  physician  pretends  to  cure 
disorders  in  the  lump;  the  same  doctor  who  combats 
the  gout  in  the  toe,  shall  pretend  to  prescribe  for  a 
pain  in  the  head ;  and  he  who  at  one  time  cures  a 
consumption,  shall  at  another  give  drugs  tor  a  dropsy. 
How  absurd  and  ridiculous  !  this  is  being  a  mere  jack 
of  all  trades.  Is  the  animal  machine  less  complicated 
than  a  brass  pin  ?  Not  less  than  ten  different  hands 
are  required  to  make  a  brass  pin  ;  and  shall  the  body 
be  set  right  by  one  single  operator  1 

The  English  are  sensible  of  the  force  of  this  reason- 
ing ;  they  have  therefore  one  doctor  for  the  eyes,  an- 
other for  the  toes  ;  they  have  their  sciatica  doctors, 
and  inoculating  doctors  ;  tiiey  have  one  doctor,  who  is 
modestly  content  with  securing  them  from  bug  bites, 
and  five  hundred  who  prescribe  for  the  bite  of  mad 
dogs. 

lint  as  nothing  pleases  curiosity  more  than  anec- 
dotes of  the  great,  however  minute  or  trifling,  I  must 
present  you,  inadequate  as  my  abilities  are  to  the 
subject,  with  an  account  of  c-ne  or  two  of  those  per- 
sonages who  lead  in  this  honourable  profession. 

The  first  upon  the  list  of  glory  is  Doctor  Richard 
Rock,  F.  U.  N.  This  gieat  man  is  short  of  stature, 
is  fat,  and  waddles  as  he  walks.  He  always  wears  a 
white  three-tailed  wig,  nicely  combed,  and  frizzled 
upon  eacii  cheek.  Sometimes  he  carries  a  (jane,  but  a 
hat  never  ;  it  is  indeed  very  remarkable  that  this  ex- 
traordinary personage  should  never  wear  a  hat ;  but 
so  it  is,  a  hat  fie  never  wears.  He  is  usually  drawn,- 
at  the  top  of  his  own  bills,  sitting  in  his  arm-chair, 
holding  a  little  bottle  between  his  finger  and  thumb, 
and  surrounded  with  rotten  teeth,  nippers,  pills,  pac- 
kets, and  gallipots.  No  man  can  promise  fairer  or 
better  than  he;  for,  as  he  observes,  'lis  your  dis- 
order never  so  far  gone,  be  under  no  uneasiness, 
make  yourself  quite  easy,  I  can  cure  you.' 


S50  ESSAYS. 

The  next  in  fame,  though  by  some  reckoned  of  equal 
pretensions,  is  Doctor  Timothy  Franks,  F.  O.  G.  H. 
living  in  the  Old  Bailey.  As  Rock  is  remarkably 
squab,  his  great  rival  Franks  is  as  remarkably  tall. 
He  was  born  in  the  year  of  the  Christian  era  lb'9'2, 
and  is,  while  I  now  write,  exactly  sixty-eight  years 
three  months  and  four  days  old.  Age,  however,  has 
noways  impaired  his  usual  health  and  vivacity;  I  am 
told  he  generally  walks  with  his  breast  open.  This 
gentleman,  who  is  of  a  mixed  reputation,  is  particu- 
larly remarkable  for  a  becoming  assurance,  which 
carries  him  gently  through  life ;  for,  except  Dr.  Rock, 
none  are  more  blessed  with  the  advantages  of  face 
than  Dr.  Franks. 

And  yet  the  great  have  their  foibles  as  well  as  the 
little.  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  mention  it.  Let  the 
foibles  of  the  great  rest  in  peace.  Yet  I  must  impart 
the  whole.  These  two  great  men  are  actually  now 
at  variance  ;  like  mere  men,  mere  common  mortals. — 
Rock  advises  the  world  to  beware  of  bog-trotting 
quacks  :  Franks  retorts  the  wit  and  sarcasm,  by  fix- 
ing on  his  rival  the  odious  appellation  of  Dumpling 
Dick.  He  calls  the  serious  Doctor  Rock,  Dump- 
ling Dick  !  Head  of  Confucius,  what  profanation  ! 
Dumpling  Dick !  What  a  pity,  ye  powers,  that  the 
learned,  who  were  born  mutually  to  assist  in  enlighten- 
ing the  world,  should  thus  differ  among  themselves, 
and  make  even  the  profession  ridiculous !  Sure  the 
world  is  wide  enough,  at  least,  for  two  great  person- 
ages to  figure  in:  men  of  science  should  leave  con- 
troversy to  the  little  world  below  them  ;  and  then  we 
might  see  Rock  and  Franks  walking  together,  hand  in 
hand,  smiling  onward  to  immortality. 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  STROLLING  PLAYER. 

I  am  fond  of  amusement,  in  whatever  company  it  is 
to  be  found:  and  wit,  though  dressed  in  rags,  is  ever 
pleasing   to   me.     I  went  some  days  ago  to  take  a 


ESSAYS.  351 

walk  in  St.  James's  Park,  about  the  hour  in  which 
company  leave  it  to  go  to  dinner.  There  were  but 
few  in  the  walks,  and  those  who  stayed  seemed  by 
their  looks  rather  more  willing  to  forget  that  they  had 
an  appetite,  than  gain  one.  I  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  benches,  at  the  other  end  of  which  was  seated  a 
man  in  very  shabby  clothes. 

We  continued  to  groan,  to  hem,  and  to  cough,  as 
usual  upon  such  occasions;  and,  at  last,  ventured 
upon  conversation.  '  I  beg  pardon,  sir,*  cried  I,  '  but 
I  think  I  have  seen  you  before ;  your  face  is  familiar 
to  me.' — '  Yes,  sir,'  replied  he,  '  I  have  a  good  familiar 
face,  as  my  friends  tell  me.  I  am  as  well  known  in 
every  town  in  England  as  the  dromedary,  or  live 
crocodile.  You  must  understand,  sir,  that  I  have 
been  these  sixteen  years  merry-andrew  to  a  puppet- 
6how  :  last  Bartholomew  fair  my  master  and  I  quar- 
relled, beat  each  other,  and  parted  ;  he  to  sell  his 
puppets  to  the  pincushion-makers  in  Rosemary-lane, 
and  I  to  starve  in  St.  James  s  Park.' 

'  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  a  person  of  your  appearance 
should  labour  under  any  difficulties.' — '  O  sir,'  re- 
turned he,  '  my  appearance  is  very  much  at  your  ser- 
vice :  but,  though  i  cannot  boast  of  eating  much,  yet 
there  are  few  that  are  merrier;  if  1  had  twenty  thou- 
sand a  year  1  should  be  very  merry;  and,  thank  the 
Pates,  though  not  worth  a  groat,  I  am  very  merry  still. 
If  I  have  threepence  in  my  pocket,  I  never  refuse  to 
be  my  three  halfpence;  and,  if  I  have  no  money,  I 
never  scorn  to  be  treated  by  any  that  are  kind  enough 
to  pay  the  reckoning.  What  think  you,  sir,  of  a  steak 
and  a  tankard!  You  shall  treat  me  now,  and  1  will 
treat  you  again  when  I  find  you  in  the  Park  in  love 
with  eating,  and  without  money  to  pay  for  a  dinner.' 

As  I  never  refuse  a  small  expense  for  the  sake  of  a 
merry  companion,  we  instantly  adjourned  to  a  n 
bouring  ale-house,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  had  a 
frothing  tankard,  and  a  smoking  steak,  spread  on  the 
table  before  us.  It  is  impossible  to  express  how  mucn 
the  sight  of  such  good  cheer  improved  my  companion  s 


3o2  ESSAYS. 

vivacity.  '  I  like  this  dinner,  sir,'  says  he,  '  for  three 
reasons;  first,  because  I  am  naturally  fond  of  beef; 
secondly,  because  I  am  hungry;  and,  thirdly  and 
lastly,  because  I  get  it  for  nothing :  no  meat  e'ats  so 
sweet  as  that  for  which  we  do  not  pay.' 

He  therefore  now  fell  to,  and  his  appetite  seemed  to 
correspond  with  his  inclination.  After  dinner  was 
over,  he  observed  that  the  steak  was  tough  ;  '  and  yet, 
sir,'  returns  he,  '  bad  as  it  was,  it  seemed  a  rump-steak 
to  me.  O  the  delights  of  poverty  and  a  good  appetite! 
We  beggars  are  the  very  fondlings  of  Nature;  the 
rich  she  treats  like  an  arrant  step-mother  ;  they  are 
pleased  with  nothing  ;  cut  a  steak  from  what  part  you 
will,  and  it  is  insupportably  tough  ;  dress  it  up  with 
pickles,  and  even  pickles  cannot  procure  them  an 
appetite.  But  the  whole  creation  is  filled  with  good 
things  for  the  beggar  ;  Calvert's  butt  out-tastes  cham- 
paign, and  Sedgeley's  home-brewed  excels  tokay.  Joy, 
joy,  my  blood  ;  though  our  estates  lie  no  where,  we 
have  fortunes  wherever  we  go.  If  an  inundation  sweeps 
away  half  the  grounds  in  Cornwall,  I  am  content ;  I 
have  no  land  there  :  if  the  stocks  sink,  that  gives  me 
no  uneasiness;  I  am  no  Jew.'  The  fellow's  vivacity, 
joined  to  his  poverty,  I  own,  raised  my  curiosity  to 
know  something  of  his  life  and  circumstances  ;  and  I 
entreated  that  he  would  indulge  my  desire. — '  That  I 
will,'  said  he,  'and  welcome;  only  let  us  drink,  to 
prevent  our  sleeping  ;  let  us  have  another  tankard, 
while  we  are  awake  ;  let  us  have  another  tankard  ; 
for,  ah,  how  charming  a  tankard  looks  when  full! 

'  You  must  know,  then,  that  1  am  very  well  de- 
scended ;  my  ancestors  have  made  some  noise  in  the 
world,  for  my  mother  cried  oysters,  and  my  father 
beat  a  drum  :  I  am  told  we  have  even  had  some  trum- 
peters in  our  family.  Many  a  nobleman  cannot  shew 
so  respectful  a  genealogy  ;  but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  As  I  was  their  only  child,  my  father  designed 
to  breed  me  up  to  his  own  employment,  which  was 
that  of  a  drummer  to  a  puppet-show.  Thus  the  whole 
employment  of  my  younger  years  was  that  of  inter- 


ESSAYS. 


353 


pretcr  to  Punch  and  King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory. 
But,  though  my  fattier  was  very  fond  of  instructing 
me  in  beating  all  the  marches  and  points  of  war,  I 
made  no  very  great  progress,  because  I  naturally  had 
no  ear  for  music  :  so  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  I  went  and 
listed  for  a  soldier.  As  I  had  ever  hated  beatino-  a 
drum,  so  I  soon  found  that  I  disliked  carrying  a  musket 
also  ;  neither  the  one  trade  nor  the1  other  was  to  my 
taste,  for  1  was  by  nature  fond  of  being  a  gentleman  : 
besides,  I  was  obliged  to  obey  my  captain  ;  he  has 
his  will,  I  have  mine,  and  you  have  yours :  now  I 
very  reasonably  concluded,  that  it  was  much  more 
comfortable  for  a  man  to  obey  his  own  will  than 
another's. 

'  The  life  of  a  soldier  soon  therefore  gave  me  the 
spleen  ;  I  asked  leave  to  quit  the  service  ;  but,  as  I 
was  tall  and  strong,  my  captain  thanked  me  for  my 
kind  intention,  and  said,  because  he  had  a  regard  for 
me  we  should  not  par;.  I  wrote  to  my  father  a  very 
dismal,  penitent  letter,  and  desired  that  he  would  raise 
money  to  pay  for  my  discharge  ;  but  the  good  man 
was  as  fond  of  drinking  as  I  was  (sir,  my  service  to 
you),  and  those  who  are  fond  of  drinking  never  pay 
for  other  people's  discharges :  in  short,  he  never  an- 
swered my  letter.  What  could  be  done?  If  I  have 
not  money,  said  I  to  myself,  to  pay  for  my  discharge, 
I  must  find  an  equivalent  some  other  way;  and  that 
must  be  by  running  away.  I  deserted,  and  that  an- 
swered my  purpose  every  bit  as  well  as  if  1  had  bought 
my  discharge. 

'  Well,  I  was  now  fairly  rid  of  my  military  employ- 
ment, 1  sold  my  soldier's  clothes,  bought  worse,  and, 
in  order  not  to  be  overtaken,  took  the  most  unfre- 
quented roads  possible.  One  evening:,  as  I  was 
entering  a  village,  I  perceived  a  man,  whom  I  after- 
ward found  to  be  the  curate  of  the  parish  ,  thrown  from 
his  horse  in  a  miry  road,  and  almost  smothered  in  the 
mud  lie  desired  mv  assistance  :  I  gave  it,  and  drew 
him  out  with  some  difficulty,  lie  thanked  me  for  my 
trouble  and  was  going  off;  but  I  followed  him  home. 


354 


ESSAYS. 


for  1  Joved  always  to  have  a  man  thank  me  at  his  own 
door.  The  curate  asked  a  hundred  questions;  as, 
whose  son  I  was  ;  from  whence  I  came  ;  and  whether 
I  would  be  faithful.  J.  answered  him  greatly  to  his 
satisfaction,  and  gave  myself  one  of  the  best  characters 
in  the  world  for  sobriety  (sir,  I  have  the  honour  of 
drinking  your  health),  "discretion,  and  fidelity.  To 
make  a  long  story*  short,  he  wanted  a  servant,  and 
hired  me.  With  him  1  lived  but  two  months ;  we  did 
not  much  like  each  other;  I  was  fond  of  eating,  and 
he  gave  me  but  little  to  eat ;  I  loved  a  pretty  girl,  and 
the  old  woman,  my  fellow-servant,  was  ill-natured 
and  ugly.  As  they  endeavoured  to  starve  me  between 
them,  1  made  a  pious  resolution  to  prevent  their  com- 
mitting murder  :  I  stole  the  eggs  as  soon  as  they  were 
laid  ;  I  emptied  every  unfinished  bottle  that  1  could 
lay  my  hands  on  ;  whatever  eatable  came  in  my  way 
was  sure  to  disappear  :  in  short,  they  found  I  would 
not  do;  so  I  was  discharged  one  morning,  and  paid 
three  shillings  and  sixpence  for  two  months'  wages. 

'  While  my  money  was  getting  ready,  I  employed 
myself  in  making  preparations  for  my  departure  ;  two 
hens  were  hatching  in  an  out-house,  I  went  and  took 
the  eggs  from  habit,  and,  not  to  separate  the  parents 
from  the  children,  1  lodged  hens  and  all  in  my  knap- 
sack. After  this  piece  of  frugality,  I  returned  to 
receive  my  money,  and,  with  my  knapsack  on  my 
back  and  a  staff  in  my  hand,  I  bid  adieu,  with  tears 
in  my  eyes,  to  my  old  benefactor.  I  had  not  gone  far 
from  the  house  when  I  heard  behind  me  the  cry  of 
"  Stop  thief!"  but  this  only  increased  my  despatch: 
it  would  have  been  foolish  for  me  to  stop,  as  I  knew 
the  voice  could  not  be  levelled  at  me.  But  hold,  I 
think  I  passed  those  two  months  at  the  curate's  with- 
out drinking ;  come,  the  times  are  dry,  and  may  this 
be  my  poison  if  ever  I  spent  two  more  pious,  stupid 
months  i-n  all  my  life. 

'  Well,  after  travelling  some  days,  whom  should  I 
light  upon  but  a  company  of  strolling  players?  The 
moment  I  saw  them  at  a  distance,  my  heart  warmed 


ESSAYS. 


355 


to  them  :  I  had  a  sort  of  natural  love  foi  every  thing 
of  the  vagabond  order  ;  they  were  employed  in  settling 
their  baggage  which  had  been  overturned  in  a  narrow 
way  ;  I  offered  my  assistance,  which  they  accepted  ; 
and  we  soon  became  so  well  acquainted,  that  they 
took  me  as  a  servant.  This  was  a  paradise  to  me ; 
they  sung,  danced,  drank,  eat,  and  travelled,  all  at  the 
same  time.  By  the  blood  of  the  Mirabels,  I  thought 
I  had  never  lived  till  then  ;  I  grew  as  merry  as  a  grig, 
and  laughed  at  every  word  that  was  spoken.  They 
liked  me  as  much  as  1  liked  them  ;  I  was  a  very  good 
figure,  as  you  see ;  and,  though  I  was  poor,  I  was  not 
modest. 

'  I  love  a  straggling  life  above  all  things  in  the 
world  ;  sometimes  good,  sometimes  bad  :  to  be  warm 
to-dav  and  cold  to-morrow  ;  to  eat  when  one  can  get 
it,  and  drink  when  (the  tankard  is  out)  it  stands  before 
me.  We  arrived  that  evening  at  Tenterden,  and  took 
a  larj  e  room  at  the  Greyhound,  where  we  resolved  to 
exhibit  Romeo  and  Juliet,  with  the  funeral  procession, 
the  grave  and  the  garden  scene.  Romeo  was  to  be 
performed  by  a  gentleman  from  the  theatre  royal  in 
Prury-lane;  Juliet,  by  a  lady  who  had  never  appeared 
on  any  stage  before  ;  and  1  was  to  snuff  the  candles  ; 
all  excellent  in  our  way.  We  had  figures  enough,  but 
the  difficulty  was  to  dress  them.  The  same  coat  that 
served  Romeo,  turned  with  the  blue  lining  outwards, 
served  for  his  friend  Mercutio  ;  a  large  piece  of  crape 
sufficed  at  once  for  Juliet's  petticoat  and  pall ;  a  pestle 
and  mortar,  from  a  neighbouring  apothecary's,  an- 
swered all  the  purposes  of  a  bell :  and  our  landlord's 
own  family,  wrapped  in  white  sheets,  served  to  fill  up 
the  procession.  In  short,  there  were  but  three  figures 
among  us  that  might  be  said  to  be  dressed  with  any 
propriety  ;  1  mean  the  nurse,  the  starved  apothecary, 
and  myself.  Our  performance  gave  universal  satis- 
faction :  the  whole  audience  were  enchanted  with  our 
powers. 

'  There  is  one  rule  by  which  a  strolling  player  may 
be  ever  secure  of  success ;  that  is,  in  our  theatrical 


356  ESSAYS. 

way  of  expressing  it,  to  make  a  great  deal  of  the  cha- 
racter. To  speak  and  act  as  in  common  life,  is  not 
playing,  nor  is  it  what  people  come  to  see  :  natural 
speaking,  like  sweet  wine,  runs  glibly  over  the  palate, 
and  scarce  leaves  any  taste  behind  it :  but  being  high 
in  a  part  resembles  vinegar,  which  grates  upon  the  taste, 
and  one  feels  it  while  he  is  drinking.  To  please  in 
town  or  country,  the  way  is,  to  cry,  wring,  cringe 
into  attitudes,  mark  the  emphasis,  slap  the  pockets, 
and  labour  like  one  in  the  falling-sickness;  that  is 
the  way  to  work  for  applause ;  that  is  the  way  to 
gain  it. 

'  As  we  received  much  reputation  for  our  skill  on 
this  first  exhibition,  it  was  but  natural  for  me  to  ascribe 
part  of  the  success  to  myself;  I  snuffed  the  candles; 
and,  let  me  tell  you,  that  without  a  candle-snuffer, 
the  piece  would  lose  half  its  embellishments.  In  this 
manner  we  continued  a  fortnight,  and  drew  toleiable 
houses  :  but  the  evening  before  our  intended  depar- 
ture, we  gave  out  our  very  best  piece,  in  which  all  our 
strength  was  to  be  exerted.  \Ye  had  great  expecta- 
tions from  this,  and  even  doubled  our  prices,  when, 
behold  !  one  of  the  principal  actors  fell  ill  of  a  violent 
fever.  This  was  a  stroke  like  thunder  to  our  little 
company :  they  were  resolved  to  go,  in  a  body,  to 
scold  the  man  for  falling  sick  at  so  inconvenient  a 
time,  and  that  too  of  a  disorder  that  threatened  to  be 
expensive.  I  seized  the  moment,  and  offered  to  act 
the  part  myself  in  his  stead.  The  case  was  desperate ; 
they  accepted  my  offer;  and  I  accordingly  sat  down 
with  the  part  in  my  hand,  and  a  tankard  before  me 
(sir,  your  health),  and  studied  the  character,  which 
was  to  be  rehearsed  the  next  day,  and  played  soon 
after. 

'I  found  my  memory  excessively  helped  bv  drink- 
ing :  I  learned  my  part  with  astonishing  rapidity,  and 
bid  adieu  to  snuffing  candles  ever  after.  1  found  that 
Nature  had  designed  me  for  more  noble  employments, 
and  I  was  resolved  to  take  her  when  in  the  humour. 
We  got  together  in  order  to  rehearse,  and  1  informed 


ESSAYS.  357 

my  companions,  masters  now  no  longer,  of  the  surpris- 
ing change  I  felt  within  me.  Let  the  sick  man,  said 
1,  be  under  no  uneasiness  to  get  well  again  ;  I'll  fill 
his  place  to  universal  satisfaction  :  he  may  even  die, 
if  he  thinks  proper ;  I'll  engage  that  he.  shall  never 
be  missed.  I  rehearsed  before  them,  stru:t<*d,  ranted, 
and  received  applause.  They  soon  gave  out  that  a 
new  actor  of  eminence  was  to  appear,  and  immediately 
all  the  genteel  places  were  bespoke.  Before  I  as- 
cended t tie  stage,  however,  I  concluded  within  myself, 
that,  as  I  brought  money  to  the  house,  I  ought  to  have 
my  share  in  the  profits.  Gentlemen  (said  I,  address- 
ing our  company).,  I  don't  pretend  to  direct  you  ;  far 
be  it  from  me  to  treat  you  with  so  much  ingratitude  : 
you  have  published  my  name  in  the  bills  with  the  ut- 
most good-nature ;  and,  as  affairs  stand,  cannot  act 
without  me  ;  so,  gentlemen,  to  shew  you  my  gratitude, 
I  expect  to  be  paid  for  my  acting  as  much  as  any  of 
you,  otherwise  1  declara  off;  I'll  brandish  my  snuffers 
and  clip  candles  as  usual.  This  was  a  very  disagree- 
able proposal,  but  they  found  that  it  was  impossible  to 
refuse  it ;  it  was  irresistible,  it  was  adamant :  they 
consented,  and  I  went  on  in  king  Bajazet :  my  frown- 
ing brows  bound  with  a  stocking  stuffed  into  a  turban, 
while  on  my  captived  arms!  brandished  a  jack-chain. 
Nature  seemed  to  have  fitted  me  for  the  part ;  I  was 
tall,  and  had  a  loud  voice  ;  my  very  entrance  excited 
universal  applause  ;  I  looked  round  on  the  audience 
with  a  smile,  and  made  a  most  low  and  graceful  bow, 
for  that  is  the  rule  among  us.  As  it  was  a  very  pas- 
sionate part,  1  invigorated  my  spirits  with  three  full 
glasses  (the  tankard  is  almost  out)  of  bramlv.  By  Alia! 
it  is  almost  inconceivable  how  I  went  through  it.  Tamer- 
lane was  but  a  fool  to  me  ;  though  he  was  sometimes 
loud  enough  too,  yet  I  was  still  louder  than  he;  but 
then,  besides,  I  had  attitudes  in  abundance  ;  in  gene- 
ral, 1  kept  my  arms  folded  up  thus  upon  the  pit  of  my 
stomach  ;  it  is  the  way  at  Drury-lane,  ami  has  always 
a  fine  effect.  The  tankard  would  sink  to  the  bottom 
before  I  could  get  through  the  whole  of  my  merits : 


3  ;8  ESSAYS. 

m  short,  I  came  off  like  a  prodigy ;  and,  such  was 
my  success,  that  I  could  ravish  the  laurels  even  from 
a  sirloin  of  beef.  The  principal  gentlemen  and  ladies 
of  the  town  came  to  me,  after  the  play  was  over,  to 
compliment  me  on  my  success  :  one  praised  my  voice, 
another  my  person  :  Upon  my  word,  says  the  squire's 
lady,  he  will  make  one  of  the  finest  actors  in  Europe  ; 
I  say  it,  and  I  think  I  am  something  of  a  judge. — 
Praise  in  the  beginning  is  agreeable  enough,  and  we 
receive  it  as  a  favour ;  but  when  it  comes  in  great 
quantities  we  regard  it  only  as  a  debt,  which  nothing 
but  our  merit  could  extort :  instead  of  thanking  them, 
I  internally  applauded  myself.  We  were  desired  to 
give  our  piece  a  second  time  ;  we  obeyed,  and  I  was 
applauded  even  more  than  before. 

'  At  last  we  left  the  town,  in  order  to  be  at  a  horse- 
race at  some  distance  from  thence.  I  shall  never 
think  of  Tenterden  without  tears  of  gratitude  and 
respect.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen  there,  take  my 
word  for  it,  are  very  good  judges  of  plays  and  actors. 
Ccme,  let  us  drink  their  healths,  if  you  please,  sir. 
We  quitted  the  town,  I  say  :  and  there  was  a  wide 
difference  between  my  coming  in  and  going  out :  I 
entered  the  town  a  candle  snuffer,  and  I  quitted  it  a 
hero  ! — Such  is  the  world — little  to-day,  and  great  to- 
morrow. I  could  say  a  great  deal  more  upon  that 
subject,  something  truly  sublime,  upon  the  ups  and 
downs  of  fortune  ;  but  it  would  give  us  both  the 
spleen,  and  so  I  shall  pass  it  over. 

'  The  races  were  ended  before  we  arrived  at  the  next 
town,  which  was  no  small  disappointment  to  out 
company;  however,  we  were  resolved  to  take  all  we 
could  get.  I  played  capital  characters  there  too,  and 
came  off  with  my  usual  brilliancy.  I  sincerely  be- 
lieve I  should  have  been  the  first  actor  in  Europe, 
had  my  growing  merit  been  properly  cultivated  ;  but 
there  came  an  unkindly  frost  which  nipped  me  in  the 
bud,  and  levelled  me  once  more  down  to  the  common 
standard  of  humanity.  I  played  Sir  Harry  Wildair ; 
all  the  country  ladies  were  charmed  :  if  1  but  drew 


ESSAYS.  359 

out  my  snuff-box,  the  whole  house  was  in  a  roar  of 
rapture  ;  when  1  exercised  my  cudgel,  I  thought  they 
would  have  fallen  into  convulsions. 

'  There  was  here  a  lady  who  had  received  an  edu- 
cation of  nine  months  in  London,  and  this  gave  her 
pretensions  to  taste,  which  rendered  her  the  indisput- 
able mistress  of  the  ceremonies  wherever  she  came. 
She  was  informed  of  my  merits  :  every  body  praised 
me  :  yet  she  refused  at  first  going  to  see  me  perform  ; 
she  could  not  conceive,  she  said,  any  thing  but  stuff 
from  a  stroller  ;  talked  something  in  praise  of  Garrick, 
and  amazed  the  ladies  with  her  skill  in  enunciations, 
tones,  and  cadences.     She  was  at  last,  however,  pre- 
vailed upon  to  go  ;  and   it  was  privately  intimated  to 
me  what  a  judge  was  to  be  present  at  my  next  exhi- 
bition :   however   no  way  intimidated,  J   came  on  in 
Sir  Many,  one    hand  stuck  in  mv  breeches,  and  t-he 
other   in   my   bosom,   as  usual  at   Drury-lane  ;    but, 
instead  of  looking  at  me,   1  perceived  the  whole  au- 
dience had  their  eyes  turned  upon  the  lady  who  had 
been  nine  months  in  London  ;  from  her  they  expected 
the  decision  which  was  to  secure  the  general's  trun- 
cheon in  my  hands,  or  sink  me  down  into  a  theatrical 
letter-carrier.      I   opened  my  snu(l-box,   took  snuff; 
the  lady  was  solemn,   and  so  were  the  rest.     I  broke 
my  cudgel  on  Alderman  Smuggler's  back  ;  still  gloomy, 
melancholy  all  ;  the  lady  groaneil  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders.     1  attempted,  by  laughing  myself,   to  ex- 
cite at  least  a  smile ;  but  the  devil  a  cheek  could   I 
perceive  wrinkled  into  sympathy.     I  found  it  would 
not  do  ;    all   my  good-humour   now  became  forced ; 
my  laughter  was  converted   into  hysteric    grinnin"-; 
and,   while   I  pretended  spirits,   my  eyes  shewed  the 
agony  of  my  heart  !   In  short,  the  lady  came  with  an 
intention  to  be  displeased,  and  displeased  she   was  ; 

my  fame  expired  : — 1  am  here,  and the  tankard  is 

no  morel' 


I- 


SCO 


ESSAYS. 


RULES  ENJOINED  TO  BE  OBSERVED  AT 
A  RUSSIAN  ASSEMBLY. 

When  Catharina  Alexowna  was  made  empress  of 
Russia,  the  women  were  in  an  actual  state  of  bondage; 
but  she  undertook  to  introduce  mixed  assemblies,  as 
in  other  parts  of  Europe  ;  she  altered  the  women's 
dress  by  substituting  the  fashions  of  England  ;  instead 
of  furs,  she  brought  in  the  use  of  taffeta  and  damask  ; 
and  cornets  and  commodes  instead  of  caps  of  sable. 
The  women  now  found  themselves  no  longer  shut  up 
in  separate  apartments,  but  saw  company,  visited  each 
other,  and  were  present  at  everv  entertainment. 

But  as  the  laws  to  this  effect  were  directed  to  a 
savage  people,  it  is  amusing  enough  to  see' the  manner 
in  which  the  ordinances  ran.     Assemblies  were  quite 

unknown  among  them  :  the  czarina  was  satisfied  with 
*  °  .... 

introducing  them,  for  she  found  it  impossible  to  ren- 
der them  polite.  An  ordinance  was  therefore  pub- 
lished according  to  their  notions  of  breeding,  which, 
as  it  is  a  curiosity,  and  has  never  before  been  printed 
that  we  know  of,  we  shall  give  our  readers  • 

I.  The  person  at  whose  house  the  assembly  is  to 
be  kept,  shall  signify  the  same  by  hanging  out  a  bill, 
or  by  giving  some  other  public  notice,  by  way  of  ad- 
vertisement, to  persons  of  both  sexes. 

II.  The  assembly  shall  not  be  open  sooner  than 
four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  nor  continue 
longer  than  ten  at  night. 

III.  The  master  of  the  house  shall  not  be  obliged 
to  meet  his  guests,  or  conduct  them  out,  or  keep  them 
company  ;  but  though  he  is  exempt  from  all  this,  he 
is  to  find  them  chairs,  candles,  liquors,  and  all  othei 
necessaries  that  company  may  ask  for  :  he  is  likewise 
to  provide  them  with  cards,  dice,  and  every  necessary 
for  gaming. 

IV.  There  shall  be  no  fixed  hour  for  coming  or 
going  away  ;  it  is  enough  for  a  person  to  appear  in 
the  assembly. 


ESSAYS.  3d 

V.  Every  one  shall  be  free  to  sit,  walk,  or  game, 
as  he  pleases :  nor  shall  any  one  go  about  to  hinder 
him,  or  take  exception  at  what  he  does,  upon  pain  of 
emptying  the  great  eagle  (a  pint-bowl  full  of  brandy): 
it  shall  likewise  be  sufficient,  at  entering  or  retiring,  to 
salute  the  company. 

VI.  Persons  of  distinction,  noblemen,  superior  of- 
ficers, merchants,  and  tradesmen  of  note,  head  work- 
men, especially  carpenters,  and  persons  employed  in 
chancery,  are  to  have  liberty  to  enter  the  assemblies; 
as  likewise  their  wives  and  children. 

VII.  A  particular  place  shall  be  assigned  the  foot- 
men, except  those  of  the  house,  that  there  may  be 
room  enough  in  the  apartments  designed  for  the  as- 
sembly. 

VIII.  No  ladies  are  to  get  drunk  upon  any  pre- 
tence whatsoever,  nor  shall  gentlemen  be  drunk  before 
nine. 

IX.  Ladies  who  play  at  forfeitures,  questions  and 
commands,  &c.  shall  not  be  riotous  :  no  gentlemen 
shall  attempt  to  force  a  kiss,  and  no  person  shall  offer 
to  strike  a  woman  in  the  assembly,  under  pain  of 
future  exclusion. 

Such  are  the  statutes  upon  this  occasion,  which,  in 
their  very  appearance,  carry  an  air  of  ridicule  and 
satire.  But  politeness  must  enter  every  country  by 
degrees  ;  ami  these  rules  resemble  the  breeding  of  a 
clown,  awkward  but  sincere. 


THE   GENIUS    OF   LOVE: 

AN  EASTERN  APOLOGUE. 

The  formalities,  delays,  and  disappointments,  that  pre- 
cede a  treaty  of  marriage  here,  are  usually  as  numer- 
ous as  those  previous  to  a  treaty  of  peace.  The  laws 
of  this  country  are  finely  calculated  to  promote  all 
commerce,  but  the  commerce  between  the  sexes 
Their  encouragements  for  propagating  hemp,  madder 
R 


362  ESSAYS. 

and  tobacco,  are  indeed  admirable  !     Marriages  are 
the  only  commodity  that  meets  with  none. 

Yet,  from  the  vernal  softness  of  the  air,  the  verdure 
of  the  fields,  the  transparency  of  the  streams,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  women,  I  know  few  countries  more 
proper  to  invite  to  courtship.  Here  Love  might  sport 
among  painted  lawns  and  warbling  groves,  and  revel 
amidst  gales,  wafting  at  once  both  fragrance  and  har- 
mony. Yet  it  seems  he  has  forsaken  the  island  ;  and, 
when  a  couple  are  now  to  be  married,  mutual  love, 
or  a  union  of  minds,  is  the  last  and  most  trifling  con- 
sideration. If  their  goods  and  chattels  can  be  brought 
to  unite,  fheir  sympathetic  souls  are  ever  ready  to 
guarantee  the  treaty.  The  gentleman's  mortgaged 
lawD  becomes  enamoured  of  the  lady's  marriageable 
grove  ;  the  match  is  struck  up,  and  both  parties  are 
piously  in  love — according  to  act  of  parliament. 

Thus  they  who  have  a  fortune,  are  possessed  at  least 
of  something  that  is  lovely  ;  but  I  actually  pity  these 
that  have  none.  I.  am  told  there  was  a  time  when 
ladies,  with  no  other  merit  but  youth,  virtue,  and 
beauty,  had  a  chance  for  husbands,  at  least  among 
the  ministers  of  the  church,  or  the  officers  of  the 
army.  The  blush  and  innocence  of  sixteen  was  said 
to  have  a  powerful  influence  over  these  two  profes- 
sions ;  but,  of  late,  all  the  little  traffic  of  blushing, 
ogling,  dimpling,  and  smiling,  has  been  forbidden  by 
an  act  in  that  case  wisely  made  and  provided.  A 
lady's  whole  cargo  of  smiles,  sitjhs,  and  whispers,  is 
declared  utterly  contraband,  till  she  arrives  in  the 
warm  latitude  of  twenty-two,  where  commodities  of 
this  nature  are  found  too  often  to  decay.  She  is  then 
permitted  to  dimple  and  smile,  when  the  dimples  and 
smiles  begin  to  forsake  her  ;  and,  when  perhaps  grown 
ugly,  is  charitably  intrusted  with  an  unlimited  use  of 
her  charms.  Her  lovers,  however,  by  this  time,  have 
forsaken  her;  the  captain  has  changed  for  another 
mistress  ;  the  priest  himself  leaves  her  in  solitude  to 
bewail  her  virginity,  and  she  dies  even  without  hern  fil 
of  clergy. 

Thus    you   find  the   Europeans  ' 


.-.■>.  363 

with  as  much  earnestness  as  the  rudest  savage  of  So- 
fala.  The  Genius  is  surely  now  no  more.  Jn  every 
region  I  find  enemies  in  arms  to  oppress  him.  Avarice 
in  Europe,  jealousy  in  Persia,  ceremony  in  China, 
poverty  among  the  Tartars,  and  lust  in  Circassia,  are 
all  prepared  to  oppose  his  power.  The  Genius  is  cer- 
tainly banished  from  earth,  though  once  adored  under 
such  a  variety  of  forms.  He  is  no  where  to  be  found  ; 
and  all  that  the  ladies  of  each  country  can  produce,  are 
but  a  few  trifling  relics,  as  instances  of  his  former  re- 
sidence and  favour. 

'  The  Genius  of  Love,'  says  the  eastern  apologue, 
'  had  long  resided  in  the  happy  plains  of  Abra,  where 
every  breeze  was  health,  and  every  sound  produced 
tranquillity.  His  temple  at  first  was  crowded,  but 
every  age  lessened  the  number  of  his  votaries,  or  cooled 
their  devotion.  Perceiving,  therefore,  his  altars  at 
length  quite  deserted,  he  was  resolved  to  remove  to 
some  more  propitious  region  :  and  he  apprized  the  fair 
sex  of  every  country,  where  he  could  hope  for  a  proper 
reception,  to  assert  their  right  to  his  presence  among 
them.  In  return  to  this  proclamation,  embassies  were 
sent  from  the  ladies  of  every  part  of  the  world  to  in- 
vite him,  and  to  display  the  superiority  of  their  claims. 

'  And,  first,  the  beauties  of  China  appeared.  No 
country  could  compare  with  them  for  modesty,  cither 
of  look,  dress,  or  behaviour  ;  their  eyes  were  never 
lifted  from  the  ground  ;  their  robes,  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful silk,  hid  their  hands,  bosom,  and  neck,  while  their 
faces  only  were  left  uncovered.  They  indulged  no 
airs  that  might  express  loose  desire,  and  they  seemed 
to  study  only  the  graces  of  inanimate  beauty.  Their 
black  teeth  and  plucked  eye-brows  were,  however, 
alleged  by  the  genius  against  them  ;  but  he  set  them 
entirely  aside  when  he  came  to  examine  their  little 
feet. 

'  The  beauties  of  Circassia  next  made  their  appear- 
ance. They  advanced,  hand  in  hand,  singing  the  most 
immodest  airs,  and  leading  up  a  dance  in  the  most 
luxurious  attitudes.  Their  dre-s  w;i^  but  half  a  cover- 
ing ;  the  neck,  the  left  breast,  and  all  the  limbs,  were 


364  ESSAYS. 

exposed  to  view,  which,  after  some  time,  seemed  rather 
to  satiate,  than  inflame  desire.  The  lily  and  the  rose 
contended  in  forming  their  complexions;  and  a  soft 
sleepiness  of  eye  added  irresistible  poignance  to  their 
charms  ;  but  their  beauties  were  obtruded,  not  offered 
to  their  admirers  ;  they  seemed  to  give,  rather  than 
receive  courtship  ;  and  the  genius  of  love  dismissed 
them,  as  unworthy  his  regard,  since  they  exchanged 
the  duties  of  love,  and  made  themselves  not  the  pur- 
sued, but  the  pursuing  sex. 

'  The  kingdom  of  Kashmire  next  produced  its  charm- 
ing deputies.  This  happy  region  seemed  peculiarly 
sequestered  by  nature  for  his  abode.  Shady  moun- 
tains fenced  it  on  one  side  from  the  scorching  sun ; 
and  sea-borne  breezes,  on  the  other,  gave  peculiar 
luxuriance  to  the  air.  Their  complexions  were  of  a 
bright  yellow,  tha*  appeared  almost  transparent,  while 
the  crimson  tulip  seemed  to  blossom  on  their  cheeks. 
Their  features  and  limbs  were  delicate  bevond  the 
statuary's  power  to  express  ;  and  their  teeth  whiter 
than  their  own  ivory.  He  was  almost  persuaded  to 
reside  among  them,  when  unfortunately  one  of  the 
ladies  talked  of  appointing  his  seraglio. 

'  In  this  procession  the  naked  inhabitants  of  Southern 
America  would  not  be  left  behind ;  their  charms  were 
found  to  surpass  whatever  the  warmest  imagination 
could  conceive  ;  and  served  to  shew,  that  beauty 
could  be  perfect,  even  with  the  seeming  disadvantage 
of  a  brown  complexion.  But  their  savage  education 
rendered  them  utterly  unqualified  to  make  the  proper 
use  of  their  power,  and  they  were  rejected  as  being 
incapable  of  uniting  mental  with  sensual  satisfaction. 
In  this  manner  the  deputies  of  other  kingdoms  had 
their  suits  rejected  :  the  black  beauties  of  Benin,  and 
the  tawny  daughters  of  Borneo  ;  the  women  of  Wida 
with  scarred  faces,  and  the  hideous  virgins  of  Caf- 
fraria  ;  the  squab' ladies  of  Lapland,  three -feet  high, 
and  the  giant  fair  ones  of  Patagonia. 

'  The  beauties  of  Europe  at  last  appeared  :  grace 
was  in  their  steps,  and  sensibility  sat  smiling  in  every 
eye.     It  was  the  universal  opinion,  while  they  were 


ESSAYS.  305 

approaching,  that  they  would  prevail :  and  the  genius 
seemed  to  lend  them  his  most  favourable  attention. — 
They  opened  their  pretensions  with  the  utmost  mo- 
desty ;  but  unfortunately,  as  their  orator  proceeded, 
she  happened  to  let  fall  the  words,  house  in  town, 
settlement,  and  pin-money.  These  seemingly  harm- 
less terms  had  instantly  a  surprising  effect:  the  genius, 
with  ungovernable  rage,  burst  from  amidst  the  circle  ; 
and,  waving  his  youthful  pinions,  left  this  earth,  and 
flew  back  to  those  ethereal  mansions  from  whence  he 
descended. 

*  The  whole  assembly  was  struck  with  amazement, 
they  now  justly  apprehended  that  female  power  would 
be  no  more,  since  Love  had  forsaken  them.  They  con- 
tinued some  time  thus  in  a  state  of  torpid  despair,  when 
it  was  proposed  by  one  of  the  number,  that,  since  the 
real  Genius  of  Love  had  left  them,  in  order  to  continue 
their  power,  they  should  set  up  an  idol  in  his  stead; 
and  that  the  ladies  of  every  country  should  furnish 
him  with  what  each  liked  best.  This  proposal  was 
instantly  relished  and  agreed  to.  An  idol  of  gold  was 
formed  by  uniting  die  capricious  gifts  of  all  the  as- 
sembly, though  no  way  resembling  the  departed 
genius.  The  ladies  of  China  furnished  the  monster 
with  wings;  those  of  Kashmire  supplied  him  with 
horns  ;  the  dames  of  Europe  clapped  a  purse  in  his 
hand  ;  and  the  virgins  of  Congo  furnished  him  with  a 
tail.  Since  that  time,  all  the  vows  addressed  to  Love, 
are  in  reality  paid  to  the  idol  ;  and,  as  in  other  false 
religions,  the  adoration  seems  more  fervent  where  the 
heart  is  least  sincere.' 


HISTORY  OP  THE  DISTRESSES  OF  AN 
ENGLISH  DISABLED  SOLDIER. 

No  observation  is  more  common,  and  at  the  same  time 
more  true,  than  that  'one  half  of  the  world  is  ignorant 
how  the  other  half  lives.'  The  misfortunes  of  the 
great  are  held  up  to  engage  our  attention  ;  are  en- 
larged upon  in  tones  of  declamation  :  and  the  world  is 
called  upon  to  gaze  at  the  noble  sufferers:  t lie  great, 


36G  ESSAYS. 

under  the  pressure  of  calamity,  are  conscious  of 
several  others  sympathizing  with  their  distress  ;  and 
have,  at  once,  the  comfort  of  admiration  and  pity. 

There  is  nothing  magnanimous  in  bearing  misfor- 
tunes with  fortitude  when  the  whole  world  is  looking 
on  :  men  in  such  circumstances  will  act  bravely  even 
from  motives  of  vanity  :  but  he  who,  in  the  vale  of 
obscurity,  can  brave  adversity  ;  who,  without  friends  to 
encourage,  acquaintances  to  pity,  or  even  without 
hope  to  alleviate  his  misfortunes,  can  behave  with 
tranquillity  and  indifference,  is  truly  great :  whether 
peasant  or  courtier,  he  deserves  admiration,  and 
should  be  held  up  for  our  imitation  and  respect. 

While  the  slightest  inconveniences  of  the  great  are 
magnified  into  calamities  ;  while  tragedy  mouths  out 
their  sufferings  in  all  the  strains  of  eloquence — the 
miseries  of  the  poor  are  entirely  disregarded  ;  and  yet 
some  of  the  lower  ranks  of  people  undergo  more  real 
hardships  in  one  day,  than  those  of  a  more  exalted 
station  suffer  in  their  whole  lives.  It  is  inconceivable 
what  difficulties  the  meanest  of  our  common  sailors  and 
soldiers  endure  without  murmuring  or  regret;  without 
passionately  declaiming  against  Providence,  or  call- 
ing on  their  fellows  to  be  gazers  on  their  intrepidity. 
Every  day  is  to  them  a  day  of  misery,  and  yet  they 
entertain  their  hard  fate  without  repining. 

With  what  indignation  do  I  hear  an  Ovid,  a 
Cicero,  or  a  Rabutin,  complain  of  their  misfortunes 
and  hardships,  whose  greatest  calamity  was  that  of 
being  unable  to  visit  a  certain  spot  of  earth,  to  which 
they  had  foolishly  attached  an  idea  of  happiness !  Their 
distresses  were  pleasures  compared  to  what  many  of 
the  a-dventuring  poor  every  day  endure  without  mur- 
muring. They  ate,  drank,  and  slept ;  they  had  slaves 
to  attend  them,  and  were  sure  of  subsistence  for  life  ; 
while  many  of  their  fellow-creatures  are  obliged  to 
wander  without  a  friend  to  comfort  or  assist  them, 
ami  even  without  a  shelter  from  the  severity  of  the 
season. 

1  lijive  been  led  into  these  reflections  from  acci- 
dentally meeting,  some  days  ago,  a  poor  fellow,  whom 


ESSAYS.  3G? 

I  knew  when  a  boy,  dressed  in  a  sailors  jacket,  and 
begging  at  one  of  the  outlets  of  the  town,  with  a 
wooden  leg.  I  knew  him  to  be  honest  and  industri- 
ous when  in  the  country,  and  was  curious  to  learn 
what  had  reduced  him  to  his  present  situation. 
Wherefore,  after  giving  him  what  I  thought  proper, 
I  desired  to  know  the  history  of  his  life  and  misfor- 
tunes, and  the  manner  in  which  he  was  reduced  to 
his  present  distress.  The  disabled  soldier, for  such  he 
was,  though  dressed  in  a  sailor's  habit,  scratching  his 
head,  and  leaning  on  his  crutch,  put  himself  into  an 
attitude  to  comply  with  my  request,  and  gavn  me  his 
history  as  follows: — 

*  As  for  my  misfortunes,  master,  I  can't  pretend  to 
have  gone  through  any  more  than  other  folks :  for 
except  the  loss  of  my  limb,  and  my  being  obliged  to 
beg,  I  don't  know  any  reason,  thank  Heaven,  that  I 
have  to  complain  ;  there  is  Bill  Tibbs,  of  our  regi- 
ment, he  has  lost  both  his  legs,  and  an  eye  to  boot ; 
but,  thank  Heaven,  it  is  not  so  bad  with  me  yet. 

'  I  was  born  in  Shropshire  ;  my  father  was  a  la- 
bourer, and  died  when  I  was  five  years  old,  so  I  was 
put  upon  the  parish.  As  he  had  been  a  wandering 
sort  of  a  man,  the  parishioners  were  not  able  to  tell  to 
what  parish  1  belonged,  or  where  1  was  born,  so  they 
sent  me  to  another  parish,  and  that  parish  sent  me  to 
a  third.  I  thought,  in  my  heart,  they  kept  sending 
me  about  so  long,  that  they  would  not  let  me  be  born 
in  any  parish  at  all  ;  but  at  last,  however,  they  fixed 
me.  I  had  some  disposition  to  be  a  scholar,  and  was 
resolved  at  least  to  know  my  letters;  but  the  master 
of  the  workhouse  put  me  to  business  as  soon  as  1  was 
able  to  handle  a  mallet  ;  and  here  I  lived  an  easy 
kind  of  a  life  for  five  years;  1  only  wrought  ten  hours 
in  the  day,  and  had  my  meat  and  drink  provided  for 
my  labour.  It  is  true,  1  was  not  suffered  to  stir  out 
of  the  house,  for  fenr,  as  they  said,  1  should  run  away  ; 
but  what  of  that  !  1  had  the  liberty  of  the  whole 
house,  and  the  yard  before  the  door,  and  that  was 
enough  for  me.  1  was  then  bound  out  to  a  farmer, 
where  I  was  up  both  e.uly  and  late  ;  but  I  ate  and 


363  ESSAYS, 

drank  well,  and  liked  my  business  well  enough,  till  he 
died,  when  I  was  obliged  to  provide  for  myself;  so  I 
was  resolved  to»go  and  seek  my  fortune. 

'  In  this  manner  I  went  from  town  to  town,  worked 
when  I  could  get  employment,  and  starved  when  I 
could  set  none ;  when  happening  one  day  to  go  through 
a  field"  belonging  to  a  justice  of  the  peace,  I  spied  a 
hare  crossing  the  path  just  before  me ;  and  I  believe 
the  devil  put  it  into  my  head  to  fling  my  stick  at  it: — 
well,  what  will  you  have  on't  1  I  killed  the  hare,  and 
was  bringing  it  away  in  triumph,  when  the  justice 
himself  met  me :  he  called  me  a  poacher  and  a  villain  ; 
and,  collaring  me,  desired  I  would  give  an  account  of 
myself.  I  fell  upon  my  knees,  begged  his  worship's 
pardon,  and  began  to  give  a  full  account  of  all  that  I 
knew  of  my  breed,  seed,  and  generation  ;  but  though 
I  gave  a  very  good  account,  the  justice  would  not  be- 
lieve a  syllable  I  had  to  say ;  so  I  was  indicted  at 
sessions,  found  guilty  of  being  poor,  and  sent  up  to 
London  to  Nevigate,  in  order  to  be  transported  as  a 
vagabond.  .    . 

'  People  may  say  this  and  that  or  beiug  in  jail ;  but, 
for  my  part,  I  found  Newgate  as  agreeable  a  place  as 
ever  I  was  in  in  all  my  life.  I  had  my  bellyfull  to 
eat  and  drink,  and  did  no  work  at  all.  This  kind  of 
life  was  too  good  to  last  for  ever ;  so  I  was  taken  out 
of  prison,  after  five  months,  put  on  board  a  ship,  and 
sent  off,  with  two  hundred  more,  to  the  plantations. 
We  had  but  an  indifferent  passage;  for,  being  all 
confined  in  the  hold,  more  than  a  hundred  of  our  peo- 
ple died  for  want  of  sweet  air  :  and  those  that  remained 
were  sickly  enough,  God  knows.  Wrfen  we  came 
ashore  we  were  sold  to  the  planters,  and  I  was  bound 
for  seven  years  more.  As  I  was  no  scholar,  for  I  did 
not  know  "my  letters,  I  was  obliged  to  work  among  the 
negroes  ;  and  I  served  out  my  time,  as  in  duty  bound 
to  do. 

'  When  my  time  was  expired,  I  worked  my  passage 
home,  and  glad  I  was  to  see  old  England  again,  be- 
cfuse  1  loved  my  country.  I  was  afraid,  however, 
that  I  should  be  indicted  for  a  vagabond  once  moie. 


ESSAYS.  369 

so  did  not  much  care  to  go  down  into  the  country,  but 
kept  about  the  town,  and  did  little  jobs  when  1  could 
get  them. 

«  1  was  very  happy  in  this  manr,er  for  some  time, 
till  one  evening,  coming  home  fro.n  work,  two  men 
knocked  me  down,  and  then  desired  me  to  stand.  They 
belonged  to  a  press-gang:  1  was  carried  before  the 
justice,  and  as  I  could  give  no  account  of  myself,  I 
had  my  choice  left,  whether  to  go  on  board  a  man  ot 
war,  or  list  for  a  soldier.  1  chose  the  latter  ;  and,  in 
this  post  of  a  gentleman,  1  served  two  campaigns  in 
Flanders,  was  at  the  battles  of  Val  and  Fontenoy,  and 
received  but  one  wound  through  the  breast  here ;  but 
the  doctor  of  our  regiment  soon  made  me  well  again. 

'  When  the  peace  came  on  I  was  discharged,  and  as 
I  could  not  work,  because  my  wound  was  sometimes 
troublesome,  1  listed  for  a  landman  in  the  East-India 
company's  service.  I  here  fought  the  French  in  six 
pitched 'battles  ;  and  I  verily  believe,  that  if  1  could 
read  or  write,  our  captain  would  have  made  me  a  cor- 
poral. But  it  was  not  my  good  fortune  to  have  any 
promotion,  for  1  soon  fell  sick,  and  so  got  leave  to  re- 
turn home  again,  with  forty  pounds  in  my  pocket. 
This  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  present  war,  and  I 
hoped  to  be  set  on  shore,  and  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
spending  my  monev  ;  but  the  government  wanted  men, 
and  so  1  was  pressed  for  a  sailor  before  ever  1  could 
set  foot  on  shore. 

'  The  boatswain  found  me,  as  he  said,  an  obstinate 
fellow :  he  swore  he  knew  that  I  understood  my  busi- 
ness well,  but  that  1  shammed  Abraham,  merely  to  lie 
idle  ;  but  God  knows,  I  knew  nothing  of  sea-business, 
and  he  beat  me  without  considering  what  he  was  about. 
I  had  still,  however,  my  forty  pounds,  and  that  was 
some  comfort  to  me  under  every  beating  ;  and  the 
money  1  might  have  had  to  this  day,  but  that  our  ship 
was  taken  by  the  French,  and  so  I  lo^t  all. 

'  Our  crew  was  carried  into  Brest,  and  many  ol 
them  died  because  they  were  not  used  to  live  in  a  jail 
but  for  my  part,  it  was  nothing  to  me,  for  1  was  sea- 
112 


370 


ESSAYS 


soned.  One  night  as  I  was  sleeping  on  the  bed  of 
boards,  with  a  warm  blanket  about  me,  for  I  always 
loved  to  lie  well,  I  was  awakened  by  the  boatswain, 
who  had  a  dark  lantern  in  his  hand.  Jack,  says  he  to 
me,  will  you  knock  out  the  French  sentries'  brains  1  I 
don't  care,  says  1,  striving  to  keep  myself  awake,  if  I 
lend  a  hand.  Then  follow  me,  says  he,  and  I  hope 
we  shall  do  business.  So  up  I  got,  and  tied  my 
blanket,  which  was  all  the  clothes  I  had,  about  my 
middle,  and  went  with  him  to  fight  the  Frenchmen. 
I  hate  the  French  because  they  are  all  slaves,  and 
wear  wooden  shoes. 

'  Though  we  had  no  arms,  one  Englishman  is  able 
to  beat  five  French  at  any  time  ;  so  we  went  down  to 
the  door,  where  both  the  sentries  were  posted,  and, 
rushing  upon  them,  seized  their  arms  in  a  moment, 
and  knocked  them  down.  From  thence,  nine  of  us  ran 
together  to  the  quay,  and  seizing  the  first  boat  we  met, 
got  out  of  the  harbour  and  put  to  sea.  We  had  not 
been  here  three  days  before  we  were  taken  up  by  the 
Dorset  privateer,  who  were  glad  of  so  many  good 
hands;  and  we  consented  to  run  our  chance.  How- 
ever, we  had  not  so  much  good  luck  as  we  expected. 
In  three  days  we  fell  in  with  the  Pompadour  privateer, 
of  forty  guns,  while  we  had  but  twenty-three;  so  to  it 
we  went  yard-arm  and  yard-arm!  The  fight  lasted 
for  three  hours,  and  I  verily  believe  we  should  have 
taken  the  Frenchman,  had  we  but  had  some  more  men 
left  behind  ;  but  unfortunately  we  lost  all  our  men 
just  as  we  were  going  to  get  the  victory. 

'  I  was  once  more  in  the  power  of  the  French,  and 
I  believe  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  me  had  I  been 
brought  back  to  Brest :  but,  by  good  fortune,  we  were 
retaken  by  the  Viper.  I  had  almost  forgot  to  tell  you, 
that  in  that  engagement  I  was  wounded  in  two  places: 
I  lost  four  fingers  of  the  left  hand,  and  my  leg  was 
shot  off.  If  I  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  lost 
my  leg  and  use  of  my  hand  on  board  a  king's  ship, 
and  not  aboard  a  privateer,  I  should  have  been  en- 
titled to  clothing  and  maintenance  during  the  rest  of 
my  life ;  but  that  was  not  my  chance :  one  man  is 


ESSAYS.  371 

born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouthj  and  another 
with  a  wooden  ladle.  However,  blessed  be  God  !  I 
enjoy  good  health,  and  will  for  ever  love  liberty  and 
Old  England.  Liberty,  property,  and  Old  England 
for  ever,  huzza !' 

Thus  saying,  he  limped  off,  leaving  me  in  admira- 
tion at  his  intrepidity  and  content ;  nor  could  I  avoid 
acknowledging,  that  an  habitual  acquaintance  with 
misery  serves  better  than  philosophy  to  teach  us  to 
despise  it. 


ON  THE  FRAILTY  OF  MAN, 

SUPPOSED  TO    BE   WRITTEN    BY  THE  ORDINARY  OP 
NEWGATE. 

Man  is  a  most  frail  being,  incapable  of  directing  his 
steps,  unacquainted  with  what  is  to  happen  in  this 
life ;  and  perhaps  no  man  is  a  more  manifest  instance 
of  the  truth  of  this  maxim,  than  Mr.  The.  Cibber,  just 
now  gone  out  of  the  world.  Such  a  variety  of  turns 
of  fortune,  yet  such  a  persevering  uniformity  of  con- 
duct, appears  in  all  that  happened  in  his  short  span, 
that  the  whole  may  be  looked  upon  as  one  regular 
confusion;  every  action  of  his  life  was  matter  of  won- 
der and  surprise,  and  his  death  was  an  astonishment. 

This  gentleman  was  born  of  creditable  parents  who 
gave  him  a  very  good  education,  and  a  great  deal  of 
good  learning,  so  that  he  could  read  and  write  before 
he  was  sixteen.  However,  he  early  discovered  an  in- 
clination to  follow  lewd  courses  ;  he  refused  to  take  the 
advice  of  his  parents,  and  pursued  the  bent  of  his  in- 
clination ;  he  placed  at  cards  on  the  Sundays,  called 
himself  a  gentleman,  fell  out  with  his  mother  and 
laundress  ;  and,  even  in  these  early  days,  his  father 
was  frequently  heard  to  observe,  that  young  The. — 
would  be  hanged. 

As  he  advanced  in  years,  he  grew  more  fond  of 
pleasure ;  would  eat  an  ortolan  for  dinner,  though  he 
be  'il  the  guinea  that  bought  it ;  and  was  once  known 
to  give  three  pounds  for  a  plate  of  green  peas,  whicb 


372  ESSAYS. 

he  had  collected  over-night  as  charity  for  a  friend  in 
distress  ;  he  ran  into  debt  with  every  body  that  would 
irust  him,  and  none  could  buiid  a  sconce  better  than 
he  ;  so  that,  at  last,  his  creditors  swore  with  one  accord 
that  The. — would  be  hanged. 

But,  as  getting  into  debt  by  a  man  who  had  no 
visible  means  but  impudence  for  subsistence,  is  a  thin°- 
that  every  reader  is  not  acquainted  with,  I  must  ex- 
plain that  point  a  little,  and  that  to  his  satisfaction. 

There  are  three  ways  of  getting  into  debt :  first,  by 
pushing  a  face;  as  thus,  '  You,  Mr.  Lustring,  send 
me  horn*  six  yards  of  that  paduasoy,  damme ; — but 
hark'ye,  don't  think  I  ever  intend  to  pay  you  for  it — 
damme.'  At  this  the  mercer  laughs  heartily,  cuts  off 
the  paduasoy,  and  sends  it  home  ;  nor  is  he,  till  too 
late,  surprised  to  find  the  gentleman  had  said  nothing 
but  truth,  and  kept  his  word. 

The  second  method  of  running  into  debt  is  called 
fineering  ;  which  is  getting  goods  made  up  in  such  a 
fashion  as  to  be  unfit  for  every  other  purchaser ;  and, 
if  the  tradesman  refuses  to  give  them  upon  credit,  then 
threaten  to  leave  them  upon  his  hands. 

But  the  third  and  best  method  is  called.  '  Being  the 
good  customer.'  The  gentleman  first  buys  some  trifle, 
and  pays  for  it  in  ready  money  ;  he  comes  a  few  days 
after  with  nothing  about  him  but  bank  bills,  and  buys, 
we  will  suppose,  a  sixpenny  tweezer-case ;  the  bills 
are  too  great  to  be  changed,  so  he  promises  to  return 
punctually  the  day  after,  and  pay  for  what  he  has 
bought.  In  this  promise  he  is  punctual  ;  and  this  is 
repeated  for  eight  or  ten  times,  till  his  face  is  well 
known,  and  he  has  got,  at  last,  the  character  o'  a  »ood 
customer.  By  this  means  he  gets  credit  for  so:,  eihir.o 
considerable,  and  then  never  pays  it. 

In  all  this  the  young  man,  who  is  the  unh:ij 
subject  of  our  present  reflections,  was  very  expert  , 
and  could  face,  fineer,  and  bring  custom  to  a  shop, 
with  any  man  in  England  ;  none  of  his  companions 
could  exceed  him  in  this;  and  his  companions  at  law 
$aid  that  The. — would  be  hanged. 

As  he   grew   old,    he   grew   never  the   lietier ;    In 


ESSAYS.  373 

loved  ortolans  and  green  peas,  as  before ;  he  drank 
gravy-soup  when  he  could  get  it,  and  always  thought 
his  oysters  tasted  best  when  he  got  them  for  nothing, 
or,  which  was  just  the  same,  when  he  bought  tiiem 
upon  tick  ;  thus  the  old  man  kept  up  the  vices  of  the 
youth,  and  what  he  wanted  in  power  he  made  up  by 
inclination  ;  so  that  all  the  world  thought  that  old 
The. — would  be  hanged. 

And  now,  reader,  1  have  brought  him  to  his  last 
scene  ;  a  scene  where,  perhaps,  my  duty  should  have 
obliged  me  to  assist.  You  expect,  perhaps  his  dying 
words,  and  the  tender  farewell  of  his  wife  and  children  ; 
you  expect  an  account  of  his  coffin  and  white  gloves, 
his  pious  ejaculations,  and  the  papers  he  left  behind 
him.  In  this  I  cannot  indulge  your  curiosity:  for, 
oh,  t lie  mysteries  of  fate  !  The. — was  drowned. 

'Reader,'  as  Hervey  saith,  '  pause  and  ponder,  and 
ponder  and  pause ;'  who  knows  what  thy  own  end 
may  be"! 


ON    FIUENDSHIP. 

There  are  few  subjects  which  have  been  more  written 
upon  and  less  understood,  than  that  of  friendship.  To 
follow  the  dictates  of  some,  this  virtue,  instead  of  being 
the  assuager  of  pain,  becomes  the  source  of  every 
inconvenience.  Such  speculatists,  by  expecting  too 
much  from  friendship,  dissolve  the  connexion,  and  by 
drawing  the  bands  too  closely,  at  length  break  them. 
Almost  all  our  romance  and  novel  writers  are  of  this 
kind  ;  they  persuade  us  to  friendship,  w  bich  we  find  it 
impossible  to  sustain  to  the  last ;  so  that  this  sweetener 
of  life,  under  proper  regulations,  is,  by  their  means, 
rendered  inaccessible  or  uneasy.  It  is  certain,  the  best 
method  to  cultivate  this  virtue  is  by  letting  it,  in  some 
measure,  make  itself;  a  similitude  of  minds  or  studies, 
and  even  sometimes  a  diversity  of  pursuits,  will  pro- 
duce all  the  pleasures  that  arise  from  it.  The  current 
of  tenderness  widens  as  it  proceeds  ;  and  two  men 
imperceptibly  iind  their  hearts  filled  with  good  nature 


374  ESSAYS. 

for  each  other,  when  they  were  at  first  only  in  pursuit 
of  mirth  or  relaxation. 

Friendship  is  like  a  deht  of  honour ;  the  moment  it 
is  talked  of,  it  loses  its  real  name,  and  assumes  the 
more  ungrateful  form  of  obligation.  From  hence  we 
find,  that  those  who  regularly  undertake  to  cultivate 
friendship,  find  ingratitude  generally  repays  their  en- 
deavours. That  circle  of  beings,  which  dependance 
gathers  round  us,  is  almost  ever  unfriendly ;  they 
secretly  wish  the  terms  of  their  connexions  more  nearly 
equal ;  and,  where  they  even  have  the  most  virtue,  are 
prepared  to  reserve  all  their  affections  for  their  patron 
only  in  the  hour  of  his  decline.  Increasing  the  obli- 
gations which  are  laid  upon  such  minds,  only  increaies 
their  burden  ;  they  feel  themselves  unable  to  repay  the 
immensity  of  their  debt,  and  their  bankrupt  hearts  are 
taught  a  latent  resentment  at  the  hand  that  is  stretched 
out  with  offers  of  service  and  relief. 

Plautinus  was  a  man  who  thought  that  every  good 
was  to  be  brought  from  riches ;  and,  as  he  was  pos- 
sessed of  great  wealth,  and  had  a  mind  naturally  formed 
for  virtue,  he  resolved  to  gather  a  circle  of  the  best 
men  round  him.  Among  the  number  of  his  depen- 
dants was  Musidorus,  with  a  mind  just  as  fond  of 
virtue,  yet  not  less  proud  than  his  patron.  His  cir- 
cumstances, however,  were  such  as  forced  him  to  stoop 
to  the  good  offices  of  his  superior,  and  he  saw  himself 
daily  among  a  number  of  others  loaded  with  benefits 
and.  protestations  of  friendship.  These,  in  the  usual 
course  of  the  world,  he  thought  it  prudent  to  accept : 
but,  while  he  gave  his  esteem,  he  could  not  give  his 
heart.  A  want  of  affection  breaks  out  in  the  most 
trifling  instances,  and  Plautinus  had  skill  enough  to 
observe  the  minutest  actions  of  the  man  he  wished  to 
make  his  friend.  In  these  he  even  found  his  aim  dis- 
appointed ;  Musidorus  claimed  an  exchange  of  hearts, 
which  Plautinus,  solicited  by  a  variety  of  claims,  could 
never  think  of  bestowing. 

It  may  be  easily  supposed,  that  the  reserve  of  our 
ppor  proud  man  was  soon  construed  into  ingratitude ; 
and  such  indeed  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the 


ESSAYS. 


375 


world  it  was.  Wherever  Musick  rus  appeared,  he  was 
remarked  as  the  ungrateful  man ;  he  had  accepted 
favours,  it  was  said  ;  and  still  had  the  insolence  to 
pretend  to  independence.  The  event,  however,  jus- 
tified his  conduct.  Plautinus,  by  misplaced  liberality, 
at  length  became  poor,  and  it  was  then  that  Musidorus 
first  thought  of  making  a  friend  of  him.  He  flew  to 
the  man  of  fallen  fortune,  with  an  offer  of  all  he  had  ; 
wrought  under  his  direction  with  assiduity  ;  and,  by 
uniting  their  talents,  both  were  at  length  placed  in 
that  state  of  life  from  which  one  of  them  had  formerly 
fallen. 

To  this  story,  taken  from  modern  life,  I  shall  add 
one  more,  taken  from  a  Greek  writer  of  antiquity  : — 
Two  Jewish  soldiers,  in  the  time  of  Vespasian,  had 
fought  many  campaigns  together,  and  a  participation 
of  danger  at  length  bred  a  union  of  hearts.  They 
were  remarked  through  the  whole  army,  as  the  two 
friendly  brothers  ;  they  felt  and  fought  for  each  other. 
Their  friendship  might  have  continued,  without  inter- 
ruption, till  death,  had  not  the  good  fortune  of  the 
one  alarmed  the  pride  of  the  other,  which  was  in  his 
promotion  to  be  a  centurion  under  the  famous  John, 
who  headed  a  particular  part  of  the  Jewish  malcon- 
tents. 

From  this  moment,  their  former  love  was  converted 
into  the  most  inveterate  enmity.  They  attached  them- 
selves to  opposite  factions,  and  sought  each  other's 
lives  in  the  conflict  of  adverse  party.  In  this  manner 
they  continued  for  more  than  two  yeais,  vowing  mutual 
revenge,  and  animated  with  an  unconquerable  spirit 
of  aversion.  At  length,  however,  that  party  of  the 
Jews,  to  which  the  mean  soldier  belonged,  joining 
with  the  Romans,  it  became  victorious,  and  drove 
John,  with  all  his  adherents,  into  the  temple.  History 
has  given  us  more  than  one  picture  of  the  dreadful 
conflagration  of  that  superb  edifice.  The  Roman 
soldiers  were  gathered  round  it;  the  whole. temple 
was  in  flames;  and  thousands  were  seen  amidst  them 
within  its  sacred  circuit.  It  was  in  this  situation  of 
things,  that  the  now  successful  soldier  saw  his  former 


370  ESSAYS. 

friend,  upon  the  battlements  of  the  highest  tower, 
looking  round  with  horror,  and  just  ready  to  be  con- 
sumed with  flames.  All  his  former  tenderness  now 
returned  ;  he  saw  the  man  of  his  bosom  just  going  to 
perish  ;  and  unable  to  withstand  the  impulse,  he  ran, 
spreading  his  arms,  and  cried  out  to  his  friend  to  leap 
down  from  the  top,  and  find  safety  with  him.  The 
centurion  from  above  heard  and  obeyed ;  and,  casting 
himself  from  the  top  of  the  tower  into  his  fellow-soldier's 
arms,  both  fell  a  sacrifice  on  the  spot ;  one  being 
crushed  to  death  by  the  weight  of  his  companion,  and 
the  other  dashed  to  pieces  by  the  greatness  of  his  fall. 


FOLLY  OF  ATTEMPTING  TO  LEARN  WISDOM 
IN  RETIREMENT. 

Books,  while  they  teach  us  to  respect  the  interests  of 
others,  often  make  us  unmindful  of  our  own  ;  while 
they  instruct  the  youthful  reader  to  grasp  at  social 
happiness,  he  grows  miserable  in  detail ;  and,  attentive 
to  universal  harmony,  often  forgets  that  he  himself  has 
a  part  to  sustain  in  the  concert.  1  dislike,  therefore, 
the  philosopher  who  describes  the  inconveniences  of 
life  in  such  pleasing  colours,  that  the  pupil  grows  en- 
amoured of  distress,  longs  to  try  the  charms  of  poverty, 
meets  it  without  dread,  nor  fears  its  inconveniences  till 
he  severely  feels  them. 

A  youth  who  has  thus  spent  his  life  among  book*, 
new  to  the  world,  and  unacquainted  with  man  but 
by  philosophic  information,  may  be  considered  as  a 
being  whose  mind  is  filled  with  the  vulgar  errors  of  the 
wise  ;  utterly  unqualified  for  a  journey  through  life, 
yet  confident  of  his  own  skill  in  the  direction,  he  sets 
out  with  confidence,  blunders  on  with  vanity,  and 
finds  himself  at  last  undone. 

He  first  has  learned  from  books,  and  then  lays  it 
down  as  a  maxim,  that  all  mankind  are  virtuous  or 
vicious  in  excess  :  anil  he  has  been  long  taught  to 
detest  vice   and   love  virtue.      Warm,   therefore,  in 


ESSAYS.  377 

attachments,  and  steadfast  in  enmity,  he  treats  every 
creature  as  a  friend  or  foe  ;  expects  from  those  he  loves 
unerring  integrity  ;  and  consigns  his  enemies  to  the 
reproach  of  wanting  every  virtue.  On  this  principle 
he  proceeds  ;  and  here  begin  his  disappointments  : 
upon  a  closer  inspection  of  human  nature,  he  per- 
ceives, that  he  should  have  moderated  his  friendship, 
and  softened  his  severity  ;  for  he  often  finds  the  excel- 
lences of  one  part  of  mankind  clouded  with  vice,  and 
the  faults  of  the  other  brightened  with  virtue  ;  he  finds 
no  character  so  sanctified  that  has  not  its  failings, 
none  so  infamous,  but  has  somewhat  to  attract  our 
esteem  ;  he  beholds  impiety  in  lawn,  and  fidelity  in 
fetters. 

He  now,  therefore,  but  too  late,  perceives  that  his 
regards  should  have  been  more  cool,  and  his  hatred 
less  violent ;  that  the  truly  wise  seldom  court  romantic 
friendship  with  the  good,  and  avoid,  if  possible,  the 
resentment  even  of  the  wicked  ;  every  moment  gives 
him  fresh  instances  that  the  bonds  of  friendship  are 
broken  if  drawn  too  closely  ;  and  that  those,  whom  he 
has  treated  with  disrespect,  more  than  retaliate  the 
injury:  at  length,  therefore,  he  is  obliged  to  confess, 
that  he  has  declared  war  upon  the  vicious  half  of 
mankind,  without  being  able  to  form  an  alliance  among 
the  virtuous  to  espouse  his  quarrel. 

Our  book-taught  philosopher,  however,  is  now  too 
far  advanced  to  recede ;  and  though  poverty  be  the 
just  consequence  of  the  many  enemies  his  conduct 
has  created,  yet  he  is  resolved  to  meet  it  without 
shrinking ;  philosophers  have  described  poverty  in 
most  charming  colours  ;  and  even  his  vanity  is  touched 
in  thinking  he  shall  shew  the  world  in  himself  one 
more  example  of  patience,  fortitude,  and  resignation  : 
'  Come,  then,  O  Poverty '.  for  what  is  there  in  thee 
dreadful  to  the  wise?  Temperance,  health,  and  fru- 
gality, walk  in  thy  train  ;  cheerfulness  and  liberty  are 
ever  thy  companions.  Shall  any  be  ashamed  of  thee, 
of  whom  Cincinnatus  was  not  ashamed  :  The  running 
brook,  the  herbs  of  the  field,  c-an  amply  satisfy  nature; 
man  wants  but  little,  nor  that  little  long.    Come  then, 


3T8  ESSAYS. 

O  Poverty !  while  kings  stand  by,  and  gaze  with  ad- 
miration at  the  true  philosopher's  resignation.' 

The  goddess  appears;  for  Poverty  ever  comes  at 
the  call;  but,  alas!  he  finds  her  by  no  means  the 
charming  figure  books  and  his  own  imagination  had 
painted.  As  when  an  eastern  bride,  whom  herfiiends 
and  relations  had  longdescribed  as  a  model  of  perfec- 
tion, pays  her  first  visit,  the  longing  bridegroom  lifts 
the  veil  to  see  a  face  he  had  never  seen  before ;  but 
instead  of  a  countenance  blazing  with  beauty  like  the 
sun,  he  beholds  deformity  shooting  icicles  to  his  heart ; 
such  appears  Poverty  to  her  new  entertainer :  all  the 
fabric  of  enthusiasm  is  at  once  demolished,  and  a 
thousand  miseries  rise  upon  its  ruins  ;  while  Contempt, 
with  pointing  finger,  is  foremost  in  the  hideous  pro- 
cession. 

The  poor  man  now  finds  that  he  can  get  no  kings  to 
look  at  him  "while  he  is  eating :  he  finds,  that  in  propor- 
tio  i  as  he  grows  poor,  the  world  turn?  its  back  upon 
he  1,  and  gives  him  leave  to  act  the  philosopher  in  all 
thi  majesty  of  solitude.  It  might  be  agreeable  enough 
to  play  the  philosopher,  while  we  are  conscious  that 
mankind  are  spectators  ;  but  what  signifies  wearing 
the  mask  of  sturdy  contentment,  and  mounting  the 
stage  of  restraint,  when  not  one  creature  will  assist  at 
the  exhibition  ?  Thus  is  he  forsaken  of  men,  while  his 
fortitude  wants  the  satisfaction  even  of  self-applause; 
for  either  he  does  not  feel  his  present  calamities,  and 
that  is  natural  insensibility;  or  he  disguises  his  feel- 
ings, and  that  is  dissimulation. 

Spleen  now  begins  to  take  up  the  man  ;  not  distin- 
guishing in  his  resentment,  he  regards  all  mankind 
with  detestation  :  and,  commencing  man-hater,  seeks 
solitude  to  be  at  liberty  to  rail. 

It  has  been  said,  that  he  who  retires  to  solitude  is 
either  a  beast  or  an  angel  :  the  censure  is  too  severe, 
and  the  praise  unmerited  ;  the  discontented  being,  who 
retires  from  society,  is  generally  some  good-natured 
man  who  has  begun  life  without  experience,  and  knew 
not  how  to  gain  it  in  his  intercourse  with  mankind. 


ESSAYS.  379 

LETTER, 

SUPPOSED  TO    BE   WRITTEN    BY   A    COMMON  COUNCIL-MAN, 
AT  THE  TIME   OF  THE   CORONATION. 

Sir, — I  have  the  honour  of  being  a  common-council- 
man, and  am  greatly  pleased  with  a  paragraph  from 
Southampton  in  yours  of  yesterday.  There  we  learn 
that  the  mayor  and  aldermen  of  that  loyal  borough 
had  the  particular  satisfaction  of  celebrating  the  royal 
nuptials  by  a  magnificent  turtle-feast.  By  this  means 
the  gentlemen  had  the  pleasure  of  filling  their  bellies, 
and  shewing  their  loyalty,  together.  I  must  confess  it 
would  give  me  pleasure  to  see  some  such  method  of 
testifying  our  loyalty  practised  in  this  metropolis,  of 
which  1  am  an  unworthy  member.  Instead  of  pre- 
senting his  majesty  (God  bless  him)  on  every  occasion 
with  our  formal  addresses,  we  might  thus  sit  com- 
fortably down  to  dinner,  and  wish  him  prosperity  in  a 
sirloin  of  beef;  upon  our  army  levelling  the  walls  of 
a  town,  or  besieging  a  fortification,  we  might  at  our 
city-least  imitate  our  brave  troops,  and  demolish  the 
walls  of  a  venison-pasty,  or  besiege  the  shell  of  a 
turtle,  with  as  great  a  certainty  of  success. 

At  present,  however,  we  have  got  into  a  sort  of  dry, 
unsocial  manner  of  drawing  up  addresses  upon  every 
occasion  ;  and  though  I  have  attended  upon  six  caval- 
cades, and  two  foot-processions,  in  a  single  year,  yet  I 
came  away  as  lean  and  hungry,  as  if  1  had  been  a 
juryman  at  the  Old  l5ailey.  For  my  part,  Mr.  Printer, 
I  don't  see  what  is  got  by  these  processions  and  ad- 
dresses, except  an  appetite;  and  that,  thank  Heaven, 
we  have  all  in  a  pretty  good  degree,  without  ever 
leaving  our  own  houses  for  it.  It  is  true,  our  gowns 
of  mazarine  blue,  edged  with  fur,  cut  a  pretty  figure 
enough,  parading  it  through  the  streets,  and  so  my 
wife  tells  me.  In  fact,  1  generally  bow  to  all  my 
acquaintance,  when  thus  in  full  dress  ;  but,  alas !  as 
the  proverb  lias  it,  tine  clothes  never  fill  the  belly. 

But  even  though  all  this  bustling,  parading,  and 
powdering,  through  the  streets,  be  agreeable  enough 
to  many  of  us;  yet,  I  would  have  my  brethren  consU 


880  ESSAYS 

der  whether  the  frequent  repetition  of  it  be  so  agree- 
able to  our  betters  above.  To  be  introduced  to  court, 
to  see  the  queen,  to  kiss  hands,  to  smile  upon  lords, 
to  ogle  the  ladies,  and  all  the  other  fine  things  there, 
may,  I  grant,  be  a  perfect  show  to  us  that  view  it  but 
seldom  ;  but  it  may  be  a  troublesome  business  enough 
to  those  who  are  to  settle  such  ceremonies  as  these 
every  day.  To  use  an  instance  adapted  to  all  our 
apprehensions;  suppose  niy  family  amd  I  should  go 
to  Bartholomew  fair.  Very  well,  going  to  Bartholo- 
mew fair,  the  whole  sight  is  perfect  rapture  to  us,  who 
are  only  spectators  once  and  away ;  but  I  am  of 
opinion,  that  the  wire-walker  and  fire-eater  find  no 
such  great  sport  in  all  this  ;  I  am  of  opinion  they  had 
as  lief  remain  behind  the  curtain,  at  their  own  pas- 
times, drinking  beer,  eating  shrimps,  and  smoking 
tobacco. 

Besides,  what  can  we  tell  his  majesty  in  all  we  say 
on  these  occasions,  but  what  he  knows  perfectly  well 
already?  I  believe,  if  I  were  to  reckon  up,  I  could 
not  find  above  five  hundred  disaffected  in  the  whole 
kingdom ;  and  here  we  are  every  day  telling  his 
majesty  how  loyal  we  are.  Suppose  the  addresses  of 
a  people,  for  instance,  should  run  thus: 

'  May  it  please  your  m y,  we  are  many  of  us 

worth  a  hundred  thousand  pounds,  and  are  possessed 
of  several  other  inestimable  advantages.  For  the  pre- 
servation of  this  money  and  those  advantages  we  are 

chiefly  indebted  to  your  m y.     We  are,  therefore, 

once  more  assembled,  to  assure  your  m y  of  our 

fidelity.     This,  it  is  true,  we  have  lately  assured  your 

m y  five  or  six  times;  but  we  are  willing  once 

more  to  repeat  what  can't  be  doubted,  and  to  kiss  your 
royal  hand,  and  the  queen's  hand,  and  thus  sincerely 
to  convince  you,  that  we  never  shall  do  any  thing  to 
deprive  you  of  one  loyal  subject,  or  any  one  of  our- 
selves of  one  hundred  thousand  pounds.'  ShouJd 
we  not,  upon  reading  such  an  address,  think  that 
people  a  little  silly,  who  thus  made  such  unmeaning 
professions  7  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Printer  :  no  man  upon 
earth  hath  a  more  profound  respect  for  the  abilities  ol 


ESSAYS.  38! 

the  aldermen  and  common-council  than  I;  but  I 
coufd  wish  they  would  not  take  up  a  monarch's  time 
in  these  good-natured  trifles,  who,  I  am  told,  seldom 
spends  a  moment  in  vain. 

The  example  set  by  the  city  of  London  will  proba- 
bly be  followed  by  every  other  community  in  the 
British  empire.  Thus  we  shall  have  a  new  set  of  ad- 
dresses from  every  little  borough  with  but  four  freemen 
and  a  burgess  ;  day  after  day  shall  we  see  them  come 
up  with  hearts  filled  with  gratitude,  Maying  the  vows 
of  a  loyal  people  at  the  foot  of  the  throne.'  Death  ! 
Mr.  Printer,  they'll  hardly  leave  our  courtiers  time 
to  scheme  a  single  project  for  beating  the  French; 
and  our  enemies  may  gain  upon  us,  while  we  are  thus 
employed  in  telling  our  governor  how  much  we  intend 
to  keep  them  under. 

But  a  people  by  too  frequent  use  of  addresses  may 
by  this  means  come  at  last  to  defeat  the  very  purpose 
for  vyhich  they  are  designed.  If  we  are  thus  exclaim- 
ing in  raptures  upon  every  occasion,  we  deprive  our- 
selves of  the  powers  ot  flattery,  when  there  may  be  a 
real  necessity.  A  boy  three  weeks  ago  swimming 
across  the  Thames,  was  every  minute  crying  out,  for 
his  amusement,  '  I've  got  the  cramp,  lVe°  got  the 
cramp:'  the  boatmen  pushed  oft'  once  or  twice,  and 
they  found  it  was  fun  ;  he  soon  after  cried  out  in 
earnest,  but  nobody  believed  him,  and  he  sunk  to  the 
bottom. 

Jn  short,  sir,  I  am  quite  displeased  with  any  unne- 
cessary cavalcade  whatever.  1  hope  we  shall  soon 
have  occasion  to  triumph,  and  then  1  shall  be  ready 
myself,  either  to  eat  at  a  turtle-feast  or  to  shout  at  a 
bonfire:  and  will  either  lend  my  faggot  at  the  fire,  or 
flourish  my  hat  at  every  loyal  health  that  may  be  pro- 
posed. 

I  am,  sir,  &c. 


3S2 


l&gA'YS. 


A  SECOND  LETTER, 


•UPPOSED  TO    EE    WRITTEN    BY    A   COMMON-COUNCIL-MAH, 
DESCRIBING   THE   CORONATION. 

Sir, — I  am  the  same  common-council-man  who  trou. 
bled  you  some  days  ago.  To  whom  can  I  complain 
but  to  you  1  for  you  have  many  a  dismal  correspon- 
dent; in  this  time  of  joy  my  wife  does  not  choose  to 
hear  me,  because,  she  says,  I'm  always  melancholy 
when  she's  in  spirits.  I  have  been  to  see  the  coro- 
nation, and  a  fine  sight  it  was,  as  I  am  told,  to  those 
who  had  the  pleasure  of  being  near  spectators.  The 
diamonds,  I  am  told,  were  as  thick  as  Bristol  stones  in 
a  show  glass;  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  walked  along, 
one  foot  before  another,  and  threw  their  eyes  about 
them,  on  this  side  anil  that,  perfectly  like  clock-work. 
O  !  Mr.  Printer,  it  had  been  a  fine  sight  indeed,  if 
there  was  but  a  little  more  eating. 

Instead  of  that,  there  we  sat,  penned  up  in  our 
scaffolding,  like  sheep  upon  a  market-day  in  Smith- 
field  ;  but  the  devil  a  thing  could  I  get  to  eat  (God 
pardon  me  for  swearing)  except  the  fragments  of  a 
plum-cake,  that  was  all  squeezed  into  crumbs  in  my 
wife's  pocket,  as  she  came  through  the  crowd.  You 
must  know,  sir,  that  in  order  to  do  the  thing  genteelly, 
and  that  all  my  family  might  be  amused  at  the  same 
time,  my  wife,  my  daughter,  and  I,  took  two-guinea 
places  for  the  coronation,  and  I  gave  my  two  eldest 
boys  (who  by  the  by  are  twins,  fine  children)  eighteen- 
pence  a-piece  to  go  to  Sudrick  fair,  to  see  the  court  of 
the  black  King  of  Morocco,  which  will  serve  to  please 
children  well  enough. 

That  we  might  have  good  places  on  the  scaffolding, 
my  wife  insisted  upon  going  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening  before  the  coronation,  for  she  said  she  would 
not  lose  a  full  prospect  for  the  world.  This  resolu- 
tion, I  own,  shocked  me.  'Grizzle,'  said  1  to  her, 
*  Grizzle,  my  dear,  consider  that  you  are  but  weakly, 
always  ailing,  and  will  never  bear  sitting  all  night 
upon  the  scaffold.  You  lemember  what  a  cold  you 
got  the  last  fast-day  by  rising  but  half  an  hour  before 


ESSAYS.  383 

your  time  to  go  to  church,  and  how  I  was  scolded  as 
the  cause  of  it.  Besides,  my  dear,  our  daughter  Anna 
Amelia  Wilhelmina  Carolina  will  look  like  a  perfect 
fright  if  she  sits  up;  and  you  know  the  girl's  face  is 
something  at  her  time  of  life,  considering  her  fortune 
is  but  small.'  '  Mr.  Grogan,'  replied  my  wife,  '  Mr. 
Grogan,  this  is  always  the  case,  when  you  find  me  in 
spirits  ;  I  don't  want  to  go,  not  I,  nor  I  don't  care 
whether  I  go  at  all ;  it  is  seldom  that  I  am  in  spirits, 
but  this  is  always  the  case.'  In  short,  Mr.  Printer, 
what  will  you  have  on't?  to  the  coronation  we  went. 

What  difficulties  we  had  in  getting  a  coach  ;  how 
we  were  shoved  about  in  tlie  mob  ;  how  I  had  my 
pocket  picked  of  the  last  new  almanack,  and  my  steel 
tobacco-box  ;  how  my  daughter  lost  half  an  eye-brow, 
and  her  laced  shoe  in  a  gutter;  my  wife's  lamentation 
upon  this,  with  the  adventures  of  a  crumbled  plum- 
cake  ;  relate  all  these ;  we  suffered  this  and  ten  times 
more  before  we  got  to  our  places. 

At  last,  however,  we  were  seated.  My  wife  is 
certainly  a  heart  of  oak;  I  thought  sitting  up  in  the 
damp  night-air  would  have  killed  her  ;  1  have  known 
her  for  two  months  take  possession  of  our  easy  chair, 
mobbed  up  in  flannel  night-cap:,  and  trembling  at  a 
breath  of  air ;  but  she  now  bore  the  night  as  merrily 
as  if  she  had  sat  up  at  a  christening.  My  daughter 
and  she  did  not  seem  to  value  it  a  farthing.  She  told 
me  two  or  three  stories  that  she  knows  will  always 
make  me  laugh,  and  my  daughter  sung  me  '  the  noon- 
tide air,'  towards  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  How- 
ever, with  all  their  endeavours,  I  was  as  cold  and  as 
dismal  as  ever  I  remember.  If  this  be  the  pleasures 
of  a  coronation,  cried  1  to  myself,  1  had  rather  see  the 
court  of  King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  at  my  ease  in 
Bartholomew  fair. 

Towards  morning,  sleep  began  to  come  fa<t  upon 
me;  and  the  sun  rising  and  warming  the  air,  still  in- 
clined me  to  rest  a  little.  You  must  know,  sir,  that 
1  am  naturally  of  a  sleepy  constitution  ;  1  have  often 
6at  up  at  table  with  my  eyes  open,  and  have  been 
asleep  all  the  while.      \\  hat  will  you  have  on  t?   just 


834  ESSAiS 

about  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  fell  asleep.  I 
fell  into  the  most  pleasing  dream  in  the  world.  1  shall 
never  forget  it ;  1  dreamed  that  I  was  at  my  lord- 
mayor's  feast,  and  had  scaled  the  crust  of  a  venison- 
pasty  ;  I  kept  eating  and  eating,  in  my  sleep,  and 
thought  I  could  never  have  enough.  After  some 
time,  the  pasty  methought  was  taken  away,  and  the 
dessert  was  brought  in  its  room.  Thought  I  to  my- 
self, if  I  have  not  got  enough  of  venison,  I  am  re- 
solved to  make  it  up  by  the  largest  snap  at  the  sweet- 
meats. Accordingly  I  grasped  a  whole  pyramid ; 
the  rest  of  the  guests  seeing  me  with  so  much,  one 
gave  me  a  snap,  the  other  gave  me  a  snap  ;  I  was 
pulled  this  way  by  my  neighbour  on  my  right  hand, 
and  that  way  by  my  neighbour  on  the  left,  but  still 
kept  my  ground  without  flinching,  and  continued  eat- 
ing and  pocketing  as  fast  as  I  could.  I  never  was  so 
pulled  and  handled  in  my  whole  life.  At  length, 
however,  going  to  smell  to  a  lobster  that  lay  before 
me,  methought  it  caught  me  with  its  claws  fast  by 
the  nose.  The  pain  I  felt  upon  this  occasion  is  inex- 
pressible ;  in  fact,  it  broke  my  dream  ;  when  awak- 
ing 1  found  my  wife  and  daughter  applying  a  smelling- 
bottle  to  my  nose,  and  telling  me  it  was  time  to  go 
home  ;  they  assured  me  every  means  had  been  tried  to 
awake  me,  while  the  procession  was  going  forward, 
but  that  1  still  continued  to  sleep  till  the  whole  cere- 
mony was  over.  Mr.  Printer,  this  is  a  hard  case,  and 
as  I  read  your  most  ingenious  work,  it  will  be  some 

comfort,  when  1  see  this  inserted,  to  find  that 1 

write  for  it  too. 

I  am,  sir, 
Your  distressed  humble  servant, 

L.  Grog  an. 


FINIS. 


4 


..■OfiTdc- 


FACILITY 


; 

If1' 

lu\r! 

*.' 


